Antihero
by Ellislash
Summary: Nick saves Ellis' ass in more ways than one; then things get complicated. AU, NxOC, NxE bromance , coarse language, sexual themes, violence. I don't own anything Valve does.
1. Savior

On his way back from the job he heard a voice that didn't belong. The city's grimiest district was home to beggars, hookers, thugs, and occasionally sophisticated 'gentlemen' like him – nobody with a drawl that pronounced should be here at this time of night. It sounded nervous, too, but he wasn't close enough to make out the words.

There was a real junker of a car parked but running a little farther down the street. Flickering light spilled out of an alley onto the asphalt. Nick sidled up to the cinderblock wall and drew his pistol, frowning a bit at the spot of blood he'd missed when he'd cleaned it earlier. There was no time to do it again, so before disengaging the safety he merely swiped his tongue over the slight discoloration. It faded with a tang that stood out from the cold taste of gunmetal.

Grimacing slightly, he began to step carefully towards the disturbance. A slightly panicked note entered the Southern accent and he moved a little faster, hoping that the running engine would cover any extra noise. When he was a few feet from the corner he stopped, and pressed his back to the wall to listen.

"...got no cash, I toldja! I fixed yer car an' ain't done nothin' t'yew, jus' leave me alone!"

"Ain't about money, you hick," a gravelly, unpleasant voice replied. "I'll put it a way your dumb ass'll understand – 'yew got a purdy mouth!'" The mocking imitation was greeted with two nasty chuckles and a terrified whimper.

"No, jus' leave me alone, please... hey now, ain't no call fer hittin' me...!" The sound of a wet, blunt impact and a pained groan. More disgusting sniggers.

"And we'll shoot if ya try to run, sweetheart," a different voice threatened smoothly. "Now get rid of those overalls or I'll cut 'em off you."

Nick had heard enough. Magnum raised, he cleared the last few feet to the corner and poked his head around it.

A flaming pile of wooden pallets cast that orange-ish light onto four men. Three were armed and facing away from him, menacing the fourth with pistol, knife and baseball bat. The one who didn't belong was clearly scared out of his wits, hands in the air and small tears leaking down his bruised cheeks. He looked strong in build but there were more laugh lines on his face than wrinkles in his brow, evidence of an easygoing personality. Nick could instantly see why the thugs had chosen this kid to assault; his cheekbones were high, his jaw was sculpted and his mouth... Well. The Family man had seen less perfect lips on high-end callgirls.

The victim's eyes fell on him and widened with fear and hope. Nick cursed silently – what better way to make the attackers turn around? – and took aim at the one holding a nine-mil. As the thug swung to look the Eagle screamed, a deep _boom_ that echoed in the narrow alley. He went down with barely a whimper, his chest having lost structural integrity due to bullets.

Nick idly regretted not putting on the silencer, but the damage had been done. The southern boy tried to back away as his other assailants reacted to the noise. A second shot felled the club-wielding brute, but the one with the knife was smarter than the others.

"I dare you," mocked a nastily snarled Brooklyn accent. The guy had his hand clamped over the kid's mouth and the blade pressed up against his jugular vein – and he definitely looked like he wouldn't mind pressing a little harder. "Get out here where I can see you, hands up. Move!" The command was accompanied by a little squeak of pain.

Seething inside, Nick stepped into the open. He kept his face impassive and professional, and his bearing confident. Clearly the two-bit hustler wasn't expecting to see a well-groomed man in a sharp suit, because his eyes widened a little before glaring again.

"This is none of your concern, hotshot. Ain't you got someplace prettier to be?"

"Oh, but it's very much my concern," Nick smiled, and reached into his jacket for a cigarette. The movement caused the thug to tighten his grip on his hostage, producing another agonized noise. He relaxed when only a small white stick was withdrawn instead of another weapon.

"You fuckin' expect me to believe that? Punk-ass pretty boy ain't got no business here, so beat it or this Southern Belle gets his throat cut."

The young man's eyes went even wider and the tears gathered once more. Nick barely glanced at them, now fishing for his lighter. One-handedly he flicked it open, customized ace-of-spades decoration glinting against its matte black finish.

"Don't try to bluff me, buddy, it won't work," he said wryly around the cigarette in his mouth. Smoke billowed out with the first puff, and he dropped the lighter back into his pocket. "My employer wants you and your friends dead, and the contract doesn't cover shmucks who get in the way. So do whatever you want - I'll watch. And then I'll blow your head off."

His voice was perfectly tuned to sound both reasonable and uncaring. He affected boredom as he eyed the terrified pair, silently willing the kid not to struggle too much. If he did, the gamble might be for nothing.

"Wh... who... What kinda motherfuckery is this? Who hired you?" Good... the thug was really freaking out.

"Somebody you crossed one too many times. Don't bother offering me a bribe, by the way." He cut off his target's next words with a voice dark and dangerous as the city itself. "The money's only a sweetener. I just _love_ putting dogs like you _down_." He caught the kid's eye and made a tiny motion with his head, hoping the message would get across.

The hand holding the knife faltered as its wielder began to tremble in fear - Nick tended to have that effect on people. He easily pinpointed the right moment to strike, and gave the kid a powerful glare that said "NOW!" more effectively than a shout. Simultaneously he raised his gun, and as soon as the misfit was out of the way he fired.

Both of them dropped to the pavement; but only one was dead. Nick casually walked over to the freed hostage, shuddering on his knees, and extended his unarmed hand.

"All right there, champ?"

The southerner looked up, on the verge of hysterics, and cautiously accepted the offered assistance. Smoothly his savior levered him off the ground and turned to lean against the graffiti-covered wall, a little surprised – but not unpleasantly so – when the younger man maintained a grip on his suit. Eyebrow raised, he regarded his charge with interest as sobs wracked his body, and on sudden sympathetic impulse he threw a reassuring arm around those broad shoulders.

That started the waterworks in earnest. Nick just stood there until his cigarette had burned down to the filter, then repeated his one-handed technique for getting another. His shirt was getting wet, but it had been stained with worse. He smirked, remembering how long he'd spent inventing a way to get brain splatters out of it. That had been a fun job.

"Th... th- they jus'... I was walkin' an'... car sounded awful, an' I c'n fix it, an'..." Fragments of sentences found their way through his erratic breathing. Nick had to piece the story together himself – apparently offering roadside assistance to a bunch of gangbangers had seemed like a good idea to the endearingly naive idiot.

"And that's why you don't talk to strangers, kid," he said wryly, and took a long drag.

The boy he'd saved took a shuddering breath, pausing his terrified sobs to lift his face from Nick's suit.

"Y... yer a stranger, technic'ly," he choked out, wet blue eyes crinkling with the attempt at humor.

Nick tilted his head back against the wall, smiled, and released his smoke to the washed-out stars of the city.

"Sure - but the difference is, I like you."


	2. Refugee

The kid was too messed up to release into the wild, at least for now. Rendezvous with his client wasn't until the next day, so Nick dragged the idiot along to the nearest of his crash pads. Why he felt the need to do this was a mild curiosity, but for whatever reason, he'd told the truth. How could anyone _not_ feel a little affection for the guy with the lost-puppy eyes?

On the way the assassin offered some gentle advice, such as why mucking around the slums unarmed was a fucking stupid idea at any time of day. The southerner watched his feet as he listened, sniffing once in a while. At least he'd stopped crying on Nick's shirt so they could actually walk someplace, but he stuck so close to the older man's heels that he was practically clinging to him. Thankful the area was deserted, the local made his way into a slightly more respectable neighborhood and led his charge up a rickety fire escape to the fourth floor of a brick apartment building.

"Why're we goin' 'round back?" asked a voice still thick with tears. Nick snorted a little – Jesus, how naïve could you get?

"Same reason we took the long way to get here. Don't give anyone following an idea of where you live." He opened the emergency exit with a hidden catch and made a gentlemanly gesture with his arm, smirking. "After you."

The kid looked apprehensive. Clearly he didn't like the idea of being tracked; but he obediently ducked inside and waited for Nick to come in, too. The con sealed up the entrance and stalked down the hall, passing all the apartment doors in favor of the narrow staircase. Puzzled but beginning to understand, the urban misfit trotted after him and down three flights to the first floor. Finally the paranoid hitman proceeded to number 1007, tucked into a rear corner with alleys on either side. He reached into his jacket for his key and with a quick twist opened the door.

Without looking to see what his new pet was doing Nick went straight to the little kitchen and got himself some bourbon.

"What's your poison?" he called once he heard the soft click of the lock re-engaging.

"Uh... Don't s'pose a fella like yew'd have a plain ol' beer, wouldja?" came the hesitant reply.

"Not 'plain old' as such. Ever met Sam?" he asked, reaching to the back of the fridge.

"Who's – oh." The kid didn't finish his question, seeing Nick turn around with a bottle of Samuel Adams in his hand. "Sure, I like it okay. Ain't never seen that label before, though," he answered, taking the beverage and examining its ornate design.

"Go on, try it," the assassin prompted, taking a sip at his own drink. The young man opened the bottle with his thumb and looked surprised when there was no signature _pssht_ of escaping gas.

"Don't mean t' sound ungrateful or nothin', but I think this's flat." Nick's eyes crinkled with amusement.

"Nope, it's made that way. Come on, you'll like it."

The kid looked at him suspiciously but raised the bottle to his lips regardless. It was difficult not to laugh at his sudden expression of shock.

"Nngah! Holy hell, what is this?" he demanded, polite enough to swallow before making the outburst. Nick chuckled.

"Limited release, uncarbonated, twenty-five percent. You'll learn pretty quick I don't do 'plain old' very well." He sauntered to the small living room, modestly furnished but spotless, and draped himself across one end of the plush sofa. "Sip it slow, it'll grow on ya."

His charge followed, sniffing at the fumes with a reluctant expression. Nick tilted his head to offer the seat at the other end of the couch, which was taken gratefully with a relieved _oof_.

"I, uh, I ain't thanked ya yet fer savin' me," the southerner said quietly, and as instructed took a small sip of his beer. Knowing what to expect this time, he tasted it for a moment rather than swigging it down. It seemed to please him.

"Save your breath," Nick answered wryly. "I don't know what I'm gonna do with you yet, fireball, so don't thank me 'til you're back in Alabama where you belong."

"Georgia," the southerner corrected. "I'm from Savannah."

"You're a long way from home, kid," the assassin commented. "Not that I care, but how the fuck did you end up here?"

"Ellis," muttered his guest. "M'name's Ellis. An' I'm here 'cuz I got noplace else ta go."

Nick put his dewy glass down on a coaster and leaned forward slightly, curiosity piqued in spite of himself. The kid – Ellis – kept his eyes fixed on his bottle, looking like he was going to cry again.

"Now what kind of unfortunate shit could turn a nice young man like you out into the streets?" he asked gently. "And how the hell did you make it to Boston in once piece?"

Ellis choked a little on a slightly-too-large mouthful of booze and had to cough before answering in a raspy voice.

"There was a... an accident back home. Ain't nothin' left fer me there. Figured on goin' north, th' big city, y'know? 'S where ev'rybody allus goes ta start over, right?" Nick knew the little refugee was hiding something, but didn't press it. He'd been sobbed on enough for one day. "I been hitchhikin' mos'ly, tradin' work fer rides. Got jumped in New York 'fore I could land a job, lost all my tools an' clothes an' shit 'cept what I was wearin' right then an' th' cash I stuck in my boot. I got a train ta Connecticut 'cuz th' Amtrak ta Boston was too expensive."

Oddly, Ellis started to smile a little and his eyes went a bit misty. Nick raised his eyebrow and reached for his drink again, already impressed by the kid's resilience.

"Your luck came back, I'm guessing?" he teased, acknowledging the slight change in tone. His guess was confirmed when the southerner grinned outright.

"Union Station, end a' th' line. I didn't know shit 'bout where I was, jus' about broke an' totally starvin'... An' this girl tells me she liked my shirt." He absently plucked at the grimy yellowish article he was wearing. "Weren't this one, it was my fav'rite Midnight Riders tour shirt. So we started talkin', an' I musta let somethin' slip 'cuz next thing I know she's fussin' over me like a mother hen. Turned out she'd just come home from college ta visit her folks an' was waitin' fer a ride from th' station. She practic'ly dragged me back ta her place. Wouldn't let me say no."

Nick smiled broadly. Ellis' naked adoration for this chick was adorable, innocent and wholesome – qualities the hitman rarely encountered these days.

"What's her name?"

"Sarah," the young man sighed. "Her an' her parents coulda been from Savannah too, they was so good ta me. I helped 'em remodel their basement an' they helped get me back on my feet... God, her ma was such a good cook! Then when she went back ta school I went with 'er."

"When's the wedding?" Nick snarked, thoroughly entertained.

"Ain't like that," Ellis replied, shaking his head a little sadly. "She's got a guy up here, Jeremy. He's real nice, too. Them an' their roommates let me crash on their couch 'til I found myself some work, an' I been livin' outta a cheap motel fer a few weeks now."

The hitman swilled the last mouthful of bourbon around the bottom of his glass, and watched his guest drink deeply of his beer. Clearly he'd taken a shine to the unusual beverage.

"All right, that explains how you got here, if not why you came in the first place. But again, what the _fuck_ possessed you to go wandering around the projects at two in the morning?"

Ellis shrugged. "I dunno. Couldn't sleep so I went fer a walk... an' I guess I wasn't payin' attention ta where I was goin'."

"No shit, Sherlock. Didn't getting mugged in Manhattan teach you _anything_?" Nick felt a twinge of regret for his harsh words when he saw those blue eyes crinkle with shame, and downed the last of his drink with a grimace at its smoky burn. "Forget it. I'm not gonna escort you back to your motel, so get some sleep here and you can go back home in the morning."

Ellis didn't look up when the hitman stood, instead keeping his downcast gaze fixed firmly on his half-finished beer. He shifted uncomfortably before muttering in a low, pained voice.

"Thanks."

"Bathroom's over there," Nick said shortly, gesturing to the appropriate door and dropping his glass in the kitchen sink. "Don't use my toothbrush."

The wisecrack finally made Ellis smile, and the assassin smugly went to his own bedroom. He dropped his black jacket and Magnum on his bed, picked up a spare blanket and dropped it on the couch on his way back across the room. He cleaned up for sleep and set out fresh towels, fully expecting that the schmutzy young man would want a shower. With a pleased smirk he placed an unopened toothbrush on the counter, too – hospitality was, after all, a signature of his Family. Ruthlessness was the other.

Ellis hadn't moved yet, still staring at the bottle in his hands as Nick crossed the den once more; but just before he bunked down for the night he heard the young man clear his throat.

"Ain't never got yer name."

The tired northerner paused at his door, looking back with one eyebrow raised.

"Nick," he replied, then wondered why the hell he'd just done that.

"Nick," Ellis repeated quietly. "Thank ya fer savin' me, Nick. I ain't gonna ferget it."

The assassin frowned, good mood tainted by the risk he'd taken. He retreated into his room, leaving a cold warning behind as the catch _snik_ed shut.

"It'd be safer for both of us if you did."


	3. Dealer

Tantalizing smells wafted under Nick's bedroom door to wake him early the next morning. Startled, he snatched up his Magum and cocked it before he recognized the scent as frying bacon. It confused him for a moment before he thought back to last night, and remembered his visiting charity case. He relaxed, scowling, before replacing the gun under his pillow and getting out of bed.

"Mornin', Nick!" Ellis called cheerfully from the kitchen. The microwave beeped and he gingerly pulled out a steaming plate draped with greasy paper towels, setting it down on the counter next to an open box of frozen waffles.

The hitman blinked grumpily and without a word locked himself into the bathroom, where a freezing cold shower jolted him into reality with a vengeance. Shuddering, Nick washed rapidly and tied a towel around his waist, collecting his pajama pants on his way out the door.

He raked wet hair out of his eyes to see his guest setting a glass of orange juice down on the coffee table. Two plates of bacon and waffles were already there, as well as two mugs steaming with the aroma of espresso. The southerner had cleaned himself up at some point, and though he still wore those grubby clothes all the dirt on his face had been replaced by a broad grin.

"Weren't no eggs or milk or nothin' so I had ta raid th' freezer fer breakfast," he explained, plunking down on the couch to eat. "I figure makin' somethin' hot's th' least I c'n do ta show my appreciation 'fore I go. An' I'll pay ya back fer th' food, I got a little extra on me."

"Keep it, kid," Nick rasped, secretly flattered, and picked up one of the mugs. The burning liquid warmed his shower-cold body from the inside out, and after a moment's hesitation he sat down with a sigh. Maybe it was stupid, but he felt safe to relax. He savored his coffee as Ellis paused wolfing down the food.

"G'wan, all I've done is be a pain in yer ass. Least lemme replace what I'm takin'."

"Pocket change," he grunted. "I don't stay here much anyway."

"But..."

"Christ, let it _go._ For _once_ I didn't kill those people for pay, and you're damn lucky 'cause you sure as hell can't afford my rates. So finish your breakfast and get the fuck out."

Ellis blinked at him, mouth partway open like had half a mind to argue, but Nick turned on his best don't-give-me-that-shit glare and the southerner meekly continued eating. The hitman drained his mug and picked up his plate, delicately nibbling at a strip of bacon. It was surprisingly good; he usually didn't have anything but coffee in the mornings. In spite of himself he felt a warm touch of gratitude towards the young vagabond.

In short order the Georgian's plate was clean. He rose from the couch, collected the empty dishes and began to wash them in the sink. Nick didn't stop him, consumed with plans for the day as he steadily picked away at his waffles. Rendezvous wasn't until after lunch; the clock said it was 9:46am right now, so there was quite a bit of time to kill before he had to be in Jamaica Plain. That suited him fine; he'd go to his favorite downtown apartment and relax for a while, maybe call up Alessandra. He hadn't seen her for days.

The quiet clatter of cutlery being stowed brought his attention back to the present. He glanced to the kitchen and watched Ellis, putting the dishes away as efficiently as if he lived there himself.

It gave him an idea.

"Yo, Ellis."

"Hmm?" The southerner looked up attentively, bright blue eyes expectant.

"You got a job, right?"

"Right."

"Where do you work?"

"Place called Good News Garage, in Cambridge," he answered tentatively. "They do lots a' classic cars. Why?"

"They pay you well?"

"Eighteen a year, ta start..."

"How much is that motel costing you?"

"Forty a night. Why're ya askin' me this?"

"Pfft, what a rip-off. Listen, you seem like a good kid. I'll turn this place over to you for four hundred a month-"

There was a metallic crash as the mug in Ellis' hands fell back into the sink.

"-With a few conditions," the hitman continued, smirking. "One: It's still my bolt-hole, and I can show up any time, day or night – though I'll try not to be followed. Two: You're to keep it clean and neat. Three: You never breathe a word about me to anyone. Deal?"

Nick's eyes crinkled with mirth as he watched the stunned mechanic flirt with the idea of passing out. His well-formed mouth opened and closed uselessly and a bright flush made his cheeks glow red. Of course he thought that his host was offering out of the (questionable) goodness of his heart, but Nick's rent was paid by the Family so every penny he charged went straight into his own pocket. Sure, four hundred a month wasn't all that much in the grand scheme of things, but it was plenty for a few personal indiscretions. Maybe he'd finally get around to having his Magnum engraved.

"I'm going to take that as a yes," he said smoothly when it became clear that Ellis was too shocked to talk. "Go get your shit from the motel. Think you can find your own way back?"

The mechanic nodded fast and tight, more like a terrified shudder than an agreement. Nick smiled again, briefly went to his room and returned to press the apartment key into his new tenant's hands.

"Make it quick. We'll work out the details when you're moved in."

Ellis gaped at him for a moment, then fled out the door without so much as a by-your-leave.

As soon as the door slammed shut Nick's grin began to fade. He'd done it again; what was it about this kid that had him acting like a complete idiot?

Scowling, the hitman adjusted his towel and went to change. Alessandra would have to wait.

* * *

><p>"I knew you were good," the client chuckled, flicking through photos of the corpse on the mark's own cell phone. "But this... This is a work of art."<p>

"You get what you pay for," Nick replied with all due respect.

He stood like a soldier, at-ease before an antique desk in an antique room. The man behind the desk was an antique, too, silver-haired and fat with complacent power. Dmitri Melnikov had grown rich operating a small chain of pharmacies as a front for trade in opiate analgesics. The Family dealt with him on contract and only when necessary, because he was a greasy sonofabitch and Russian to boot. Real business stayed within the blood.

Nick hated coming here, and not only because he had to surrender his beloved Deagle at the door – the place smelled like a hospital. He liked being clean, so it wasn't the sterile feel to the air that bothered him... No, more than anything else Nick feared death by long, slow, miserable disease and this room was heavy with the scent of it; the feel of a prison where a man could be forced to die by inches in the name of his own best interest.

As far as he was concerned, if you were going to torture somebody to death you should at least be honest about it.

"Of course." Melnikov smiled and tucked the cell phone away into his jacket. "The second half, as agreed."

At a gesture from his employer a bodyguard placed a sleek black briefcase on the desk and popped it open to reveal stacks of hundred-dollar bills. At the subtle signal of permission Nick stepped forward to examine it, flipping through several sheafs of money and expertly running his hands along the lining of the case to check for counterfeits, bugs, secret compartments, or anything else that hadn't been part of the deal. Satisfied, he closed the lid with a professional _snap_.

"Pleasure doing business with you," he said shortly, and turned to go; but before he could whisk away his payment another bundle of bills landed on top with a soft _thwap_. Instantly the tension in the room ratcheted up a few notches, and Nick locked his green eyes on the client's pale blue.

"What the hell is this?" he asked, voice dangerously quiet.

"Consider it a performance bonus," Melnikov purred.

"You know I can't accept it."

"Of course you can, my boy, you deserve it! Why turn down perfectly good-"

"Because you know full well it's _not_ perfectly good," Nick interrupted in deadly tones. "I've played this game before, _sir_, and I refuse to owe you a favor. This is how it works: I do the job, and then I get paid. No more. No less."

He yanked the briefcase away, leaving the bribe to fall back onto the desk. Instantly four guards trained their weapons on him, but Melnikov raised a hand and they froze. The old dealer leaned forward in his chair, fixing the black-haired hitman with an icy gaze that did not mirror the tiny smile on his fat lips.

"Do give my regards to your Family. They have an exceptional asset in you, my friend. Should you ever feel... under-appreciated..."

Nick did not deign to answer in words. He merely met the Russian's eyes levelly and twitched his eyebrow, at once implying both interest and utter disdain. Melkniov settled back and sighed.

"Return this man's weapon and see him out."

With the comforting weight of his Magnum nestled securely under his arm once more, Nick obediently followed a lackey to the exit. Payment in hand, he walked purposefully in the wrong direction, made a few random turns, then looped back to where his ride was waiting. He slipped into the back seat of an inconspicuous Ford Focus, and sighed heavily as Silvio expertly merged into the deadly traffic of South Street.

Meeting with the client had been easy. Now he had to meet with his boss.


	4. Rider

"Crisci, my friend! Come in, come in!" His direct superior approached with arms wide open and a practiced smile on his swarthy old face.

"Papa," Nick murmured respectfully, returning the European-style greeting. He kissed the air by the _caporegime_'s cheek and let himself be ushered into the sitting-room.

Carmine Napoline returned to his seat by the bookshelf, reached for the remote and clicked off the game. The two men on the couch looked disappointed, but knew better than to say anything. They just fiddled with their drinks and watched the proceedings with thinly veiled impatience.

"All went well?"

"Perfectly, sir. Seventy-five thousand in cash, plus a pretty nice briefcase," Nick quipped gently, and displayed the article in question. Carmine laughed.

"And how much for you?"

"I didn't count," the assassin replied wryly, setting the payment down on the coffee table. "He thinks he can buy me off you outright."

"_Quelli stupidi,_" his commander muttered with amusement. "_C__ome funghi dopo una tempesta__._ Your loyalties have not changed, I take it?"

"Do you really have to ask? I set him straight."

"Will he still deal with us in future?"

"He has no reason not to."

"That's for him to decide. Well, good work!" He turned the television back on, flooding the room with noise. "Come on, have a drink! Modena just scored!"

Nick suppressed a flinch and forced a smile onto his face. His two brothers made room for him on the couch, expressions sympathetic. Everyone knew how much the assassin hated televised sports – World Tournament of Poker being the exception, if it even counted – but you just didn't say no to your _caporegime._ So he poured himself a stiff one, snagged a small plate of _antipasto_ and sat reluctantly to do what was expected of him.

He loved his Papa dearly, of course; but blood oath or no, the man could be trying sometimes. Nick often wondered if Carmine did things like this on purpose, to test his loyalty or temper. If that was the case, he always passed with flying colors. You didn't get to be the Family's best executioner without serious acting skills, and he'd gotten so good at hiding his feelings that on occasion he wondered if he had any at all.

"How's Alleco doing?" he inquired with feigned interest before savoring a stuffed olive.

"Not on the field yet. He always gets rotated in for the second half. DeCamilli, though... he blocked four shots, took a slide tackle to the knee and they took him off on a stretcher..."

That was when Nick tuned it out. It didn't matter how much he owed the man for taking him in twenty years ago; football would never be a shared passion.

...At least it wasn't the _American_ kind.

* * *

><p>Afternoon wore into evening, an evening full of delicious food and dangerous men. Nick felt a little better about life with his wallet full of pay and his stomach full of tortellini, so he enjoyed socializing with his brothers more than usual; but he still didn't stay as late as was customary. They jokingly called him a bad Italian for being anti-social, but let him go with hearty slaps on the back. There were definitely perks to having his kind of reputation.<p>

Once outside he ruined the cool, refreshing air with a cigarette and thumbed open his cell phone. Alessandra was on speed-dial seven: lucky number seven, the lady he was lucky enough to claim as his own. With a faint smirk wrapped around his smoke he pushed the green-glowing button, and spoke in a low purr as he leisurely walked to the nearest T stop.

"Hey... Yeah, I know, baby, I've been on the job... Yes I did, are you gonna help me spend it? ...Oh, _really_..? Well, don't go anywhere... Half an hour, if the conductor's not easily intimidated. No, no, you know I'm joking... Mm-hmm, see you soon." The sleek clamshell made a smooth _snap_ as it closed. Of course he could have had a smartphone, but he preferred his gadgets to be dumber than he was. Those newfangled location-tracking apps made him uneasy.

He dropped his half-finished cigarette to the ground in front of the subway station, treading heavily on it as he descended the stairs and fished out his CharlieCard to tap at the turnstile. A synthetic voice echoed through the empty tunnel and he positioned himself on the platform, trying to guess precisely where the doors would open.

"Attention passengers: The next Orange line train to Oak Grove is now arriving."

Soft wind and vague light heralded the transit's approach. Nick toed the yellow line and slit his eyes against the initial gust, waiting impatiently for the train to stop. He grit his teeth in annoyance when it became clear that he'd have to move a few paces left to board, but the feeling was brief. Once inside the car he glanced around; he was alone. With a slight smirk he took a position in the center of the floor, placing his feet carefully and bending at the knees just a touch. When the train jerked into motion he rode with it, swaying loosely, hands relaxed. He kept his center of gravity stable as the subway rattled and jumped, enjoying the tension in his legs and the feeling of balance he got from the exercise. Then people got on at Back Bay and he had to act like a grown-up again.

A quick transfer and three Red line stops later he emerged from the dark of the tunnels into the dark of the night. Excitement grew in his bones as he walked, anticipation for seeing Alessandra. His feet were on autopilot, making the right turns by themselves so his mind was free to imagine the night. When she didn't want to go out it only ever meant one thing – one very fun, very naughty thing. He had enough sense to quickly duck into a convenience store for a few extra prophylactics and another pack of cigarettes; from prior experience, he knew he'd need both.

He silently let himself into their apartment, pausing to slip off his shoes and breathe in the familiar musk of old smoke, alcohol and perfume. Soft sounds came from the vicinity of the bedroom and he padded across the hall, nudging the door open with a cautious hand.

Thin purple fabric was wrapped around her slender arms, which were raised in the process of pulling the shirt down over her head. A lacy red bra circled her ribs and a flowing blue skirt was settled low on her hips, swaying to brush the tops of her bare feet as she moved. Thick, dark curls spilled down her back, untamed as of yet and attractively disarrayed. Nick watched her slip the blouse on and free her hair from underneath it, then languidly arranged himself in the doorway so she'd see him when she turned to the mirror.

"Nick!" she gasped happily, and did a complete one-eighty to face him. Her skirt lagged a few degrees behind, wrapping suggestively about her legs before falling straight once more.

"Why bother getting dressed when I come around?" the hitman asked teasingly. "You know all those pretty clothes are just gonna end up on the floor again."

Alessandra could turn the simple act of crossing a room into a tantalizing performance - by the time she reached him Nick was getting a little hot under his suit. Then she delicately slid her arms around his neck, and he was done for.

"You'd miss the fun of taking them off," she purred with a sly smile dancing in her dark eyes. "Just like I've missed you this week."

Nick didn't bother trying to answer; she had him ready to melt. Instead he tangled his fingers in her hair and caught her soft lips with his own, eyes fluttering shut as he tasted them. She responded passionately, gently dragging her painted nails down the back his neck and under his collar. It made him shiver, and he got himself together enough to push them both down to the bed.

"Excited tonight, aren't we?" Alessandra teased, undoing his shirt buttons one at a time.

"Look who's talking," Nick growled, bending to nip roughly at the sensitive skin of her neck. She trembled, little goosebumps forming on her arms.

"Cut a girl some slack, baby, you've been gone for days," she replied with a waver of pleasure in her voice. Her lover thrilled to the sound, sliding his hands up her waist to remove her shirt.

"Oh, and I suppose all those toys you keep in the bottom drawer are just for show?" he asked in the forced gap between kisses. Her lingerie was of the front-clasp variety, and fell open in seconds to expose her full breasts.

"It's just not the same," she breathed, undoing Nick's belt with a practiced motion. "I can't do _this _to a vibrator!"

At the word she surged up and twisted, and suddenly the hitman was on his back amongst the sheets, hands pinned, completely at her mercy. He was strong enough to resist but didn't, taking dirty pleasure in the unusual condition of being helpless. Instead he groaned as Alessandra turned the tables on him, attacking the right side of his neck with her teeth. Nerves sparked enjoyably from head to toe; she was way too good at that, as evidenced by the bruised mark on his left side that _still_ hadn't gone away from last time. A tiny smirk touched the corner of his gasping lips – now at least he'd be symmetric.

She stopped sucking at his neck abruptly, making him open his eyes. She had that look on again, the one that said he was in trouble: big, wonderful, torturous, delicious trouble. He shuddered and tried to sit up.

"No you don't, honey," she whispered wickedly, holding him down. She arranged him so she could keep him still with just her legs, kneeling over his chest with his arms pinned beneath. Nick bit his lip with fully justified apprehension and winced at the metallic _clink_ that came from the headboard. He knew what she was doing; he hated and loved her for it.

"In my world those mean somebody's going to die," he rasped as Alessandra handcuffed his wrists to opposite corners of the bed. A nervous thrill fluttered in his gut, but pulling fruitlessly against his bonds was such a huge turn-on that his already tight pants fast became painful. His tormentor just grinned and took off her skirt, revealing a kinky pair of panties.

"I'll try to avoid that," she purred, reaching into his jacket to put his gun aside. "But no promises."

Nick's eyes rolled up in his head as she got down to the business of sexual deviancy. Her fingers, her tongue, her teeth all skated the edge between agony and ecstasy and he couldn't do a damn thing about it, chained to the bed like one of his own marks – and just when he thought he couldn't take it anymore she climbed on top of him and completely blew his mind.

God, he loved this girl.


	5. Butcher

Stakeout was always the worst part of the job. In between the excitement of the hunt and the violent satisfaction of the kill was the long stretch of tense anticipation; and sometimes, like tonight, he couldn't even have a cigarette for fear of discovery. The odor and puff of smoke would reveal his presence faster than gunshots.

To pass the time he played with his pistol, repeatedly screwing and unscrewing the silencer from its muzzle and ghosting his fingertips across its newly engraved surface – his little under-the-table subletting scheme had turned out to be an excellent idea despite the risk. Ellis paid his rent on time, in cash as they'd agreed; and whenever Nick turned up in the middle of the night to pass out he'd wake, salivating, with the aroma of hash browns wreathing his nostrils. The southerner was so grateful for his improved accommodations that he treated his landlord like a god, ensuring he had everything he could want, even going so far as to ask that the assassin take over the bedroom when he came home.

"It's yer bed, I should be th' one on th' couch," he'd insist, but it wasn't like he could actually _make_ Nick take it – when the older man walked in the door the mechanic was always too deeply asleep to notice.

Lounging in the covered doorway of an old brownstone apartment building, Nick checked the time and shook out his chilly hands. At least it was only September; this would be a lot less pleasant in the biting cold of a New England winter. He tipped his head back and sighed, involuntarily recalling the stories his Georgian tenant was constantly telling. Quite a few involved convoluted plans to get out of the wicked southern heat, a climate the assassin pondered wistfully for a few moments. Perhaps a vacation would be a good idea...

Then he remembered Keith, and grimaced. Boston snow suddenly seemed much more inviting than a Georgia with that hillbilly in it, no matter how warm it was... But on the other hand, from the way Ellis told it, the dumbass would make a fun target. It would be satisfying to do what nature, luck and Darwin had thus far failed to achieve, and remove that death-defying hick from the gene pool.

Nick smiled, and stroked the stylized ace-of-spades motif that now decorated the Magnum's barrel. His trigger finger twitched with eagerness, and he passed a happy few minutes imagining the kill until movement flickered at the corner of his eye.

Quick as a flash he tossed aside his daydreams and focused completely on the job. A silver Subaru had pulled up to the curb two blocks away to disgorge the target from the back seat. Another man and a woman also emerged before the car swerved back into the empty street and disappeared around a corner.

The man who was to die that night stood out by his stature. He was only a few inches over five feet, comically short next to his companions – particularly the woman in heels. The trio stood on the sidewalk for a minute, engaged in what seemed to become a very heated conversation; then the taller man snaked his arm around the woman's waist and led her away, leaving the mark to yell after them.

"...regret that, asshole!" The last few words echoed back to Nick's hiding place. He watched the short man stand immobile in fury for a moment before stomping up the steps of a brick apartment complex.

The assassin counted ten after the door slammed, then holstered his gun and sauntered across the street like he had every right to be there. He walked around the block to the alley that backed up to the building, weaving between a few illegally parked cars and half-dismantled bicycles to get there. Grimacing with distaste he vaulted himself up onto a dumpster, then from there to the raised ladder of the fire escape. His joints creaked with the exertion and he hissed, irritated – he was too young to be too old for this shit.

Keeping the room number in mind, he wiped his rust-stained hands off on his work suit and padded with utmost care up the ugly metal stairs to the fifth floor. He thanked God that the window he wanted was only a foot from the platform, and bent out slightly to peer through it. The television was on inside, and he could see the mark's shadow passing back and forth in front of the screen. Nick impassively watched his movements, leaning a little awkwardly over the railing to see. Fortunately the target didn't stay up much later; he took a long drink straight from what was obviously a bottle of wine and stumbled into another room without turning off the TV.

Nick pulled his tools from his pocket and waited until he felt sure the man was passed out, then liberally applied grease to every moving part of the window. Blessing the noise cover he got from the still-chattering commercials he wedged and pried and jimmied the catch open. He didn't give thought to the building's alarm because the chief of security was in the Family's pocket – or under the Family's gun, one or the other. Soon the window slid up with a faint scratching noise, and the hitman executed a rather impressive little maneuver to get inside feet-first.

He landed gently on the couch, which was hard up against the wall, and crept with practiced stealth to what turned out to be the bedroom. His target was splayed out on the floor with a pool of acrid vomit spreading from his mouth, and for a moment Nick feared he was dead already. Then a labored breath made the man's chest rise slightly, and he relaxed. His clients almost always wanted that "personal touch" he was infamous for; he couldn't fulfill the contract if his victim died before he could have his fun.

He knelt by the unconscious body, wrinkling his nose in distaste, and delicately extracted an iPhone from the man's puke-stained pants. Quickly he powered it up and turned off all the apps, including the wireless receiver. Slipping the now-silent device into his pocket he cased the room for belts, ties, power cables; anything long and flexible. Success came in the form of a red woolen scarf, narrow enough to form a wonderfully tight knot and just the right color to enhance the aesthetic appeal of the bloody pool it would soon be lying in.

Nick gagged and hogtied his victim expertly, careful to avoid touching the noxious fluids already leaking across the floor. He made the position as humiliating as possible without waking the drunken slob; and the guy was pretty damn drunk. The assassin lashed his hands and feet to the bedpost, hanging him by his wrists and forcing a sort of half-kneel that left his whole body wide open for whatever torments his killer cared to inflict.

When he was done Nick pulled out the phone again and activated the video function. He propped up the camera on the dresser, where it could film the action without leaving him one-handed; and finally, lovingly, he drew his pistol.

"_P__erdonami, Madre dolce_," he murmured against the barrel, kissed it reverently – and fired.

The silencer hushed the gun's voice just as the gag smothered the target's. Red-hot lead buried itself in the bound man's thigh, an extremely effective wake-up call that left him choking and writhing on his knees. His blood glittered wetly in the darkness.

"I bring you a message," Nick recited in monotone when the man's strangled screams were reduced to pathetic whimpers. "He whom you betrayed demands retribution in blood, and the _Patriarca_ have come to collect."

Another bullet seared through the air to hit the victim's stomach, inflicting the worst kind of torturous, slow-killing wound. The scarf wasn't enough to fully mute the shrieks of utter agony that tore from his throat, and the stench of his burst guts began to fill the room. Nick ignored it and continued his scripted speech, eyes glittering with depraved delight.

"Know that your death is ignoble and shameful, as befits a treacherous worm," he growled, fingering his trigger. "Mr. Carver sends his regards."

With that the assassin put two more rounds into his target's abdomen, and let him suffer in wretched anguish for a minute. The skin around his bonds was chafed red, and his face was twisted in the purest, most exquisite expression of pain possible around a gag soaked with drool and bile. A few hellish seconds later a final shot found its mark between his eyes.

Nick turned off the cameraphone and pocketed it, savoring the twisted high of the kill. He hated the melodrama of the little show he had to give; but that's what the client wanted, so that's what the client got. At least he wasn't in the frame; that would be embarrassing.

"_Riposa in pace_," he muttered, closing the corpse's eyes with two gentle fingers. Even he had standards of decency to uphold.

The assassin left the body where it was and walked out the apartment door, leaving it unlocked. Someone would be along soon to clean up after him.

As it happened the closest place to crash was once again what he'd come to think of as "Ellis' apartment." When Nick walked in the younger man was still up, playing some kind of zombie shooter game on the Xbox he'd finally been able to afford. At the sound of the door he jumped up, dropping the controller and greeting his landlord with a huge grin.

"Nick! Good ta see ya, man, how's business?" His pert nose crinkled as the smell of the hitman's blood-spattered suit reached him. "Purdy stinky, I'm guessin'. C'n I getcha somethin' ta drink?"

He moved towards the kitchen, leaving his video game character to die a horrible screaming death onscreen. Nick smirked at how inaccurate the sound was.

"Relax, kid, I just need a shower," he said, already feeling the tension ease from his shoulders. Sure, he loved his job, but he was really starting to enjoy coming here to unwind. "But I might have one on the rocks, after."

"Okay," Ellis chirped happily, getting out the bottle of scotch in readiness. "Wouldja maybe wanna do a co-op run, too? This level's hard ta beat alone, th' A.I.s're stupid."

Nick automatically opened his mouth to decline, but something changed his mind. He wasn't sure why, but sharing a drink and a game sounded really nice all of a sudden.

"Why the hell not?" he answered with a smile on the way to the bathroom door.


	6. Brother

Ellis finally managed to get Nick into bed. He even changed the sheets for him before settling down on the couch for what remained of the night – it was a Saturday, which meant it was well past two in the morning when they finally shut down the Xbox. By then they'd drunk enough to start consistently missing their virtual targets, and when the assassin lay down to sleep he had a pleasant alcohol-induced buzz in his head. All in all, it had been a really good day.

In the morning he rose to the tantalizing scents of sausage and maple syrup. Stretching luxuriantly, he emerged into the main room with a faint smile. His roommate was, of course, already bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ladling pancake batter onto a smoking griddle. Flour, eggshells, baking soda and milk lay scattered on the counter, indicating he'd made it all from scratch. Nick had to admit that in some ways this was even better than waking up with Alessandra; she always used the pre-mixed stuff, which paled in comparison to the southerner's authentic down-home cooking.

"Gooood mornin'! Coffee's a-brewin', jus' give it another minute..." He set the bowl down and picked up a bag of frozen berries, scattering a few on top of each buttery puddle. Sizzles and steam erupted wherever a flake of ice came in contact with the hot cast-iron.

Nick leaned across the counter to watch, heat from the stove warming his bare chest. It was nice in contrast to the somewhat chilly air in the apartment, and he slit his eyes contentedly. Ellis glanced at him and chuckled, wiping purple stains from his hands onto yesterday's shirt.

"I swear ya look 'bout ready ta purr, Nick. Want I should gitcha some cream, too?" The hitman snorted in amusement and took a lazy swat at the chef's ear, which was easily dodged. "G'wan an' get cleaned up, now, food's gonna be ready soon." He flipped the frying sausage patties over and satisfied himself that they were cooking properly, then reached up to the cabinet for plates and mugs. Being a bit shorter than his host he had to stretch for them, and Nick grinned at the sight.

"Dinner and a show," he quipped, jabbing gently at the heavily muscled abs displayed so temptingly before him. The younger man yelped and recoiled, somehow managing to not drop any of the fragile ceramic in his arms. His tormenter laughed outright, loving how easy it was to yank the kid's chain.

"Hey, you want breakfast or not? I c'n eat all this by m'self, no problem," Ellis grumbled, setting aside the dishes to take up the spatula once more.

"No worries, champ - you're just too much fun to tease," the older man said with a wicked grin, and went to shave.

Breakfast tasted even better than it smelled, which was one hell of a trick in Nick's book. He wondered if he really was obliged to go to church that day, given how much he thanked God during the meal; but Ellis bolted at a quarter to ten to make it to his chapel's first service, and without him the place felt sad and empty. Nick tidied up by himself and unhurriedly put on his Sunday clothes, aiming for second Mass at eleven. He had to make rendezvous, at least.

Our Lady of Victory cathedral in Back Bay wasn't much to look at from the outside, just a nicer-than-average brick front with concrete columns and trim; but its vaulted hall boasted stone and mahogany and stained glass that praised the Virgin with ethereally colored light. Nick bent a knee to cross himself and took a seat in the far back, composing his thoughts for the service. When the organ began to play he closed his eyes, and let the holy music cleanse his sinner's heart.

He had no illusions about the state of his immortal soul. Redemption was forever beyond him at this point and he knew it; but he still loved his Mother and prayed as hard as anyone else in the pews that morning. In particular he thanked her for blessing him with the people he cared for: Alessandra, his wife as of two months ago; Carmine, his adoptive father and benefactor for twenty years; Silvio and Francesco and Alan and the rest of his blood-sworn brothers; and after a heartbeat of hesitation, Ellis. Even taking the Oath of Family into account, the southerner was fast becoming more of a friend than any of his fellow soldiers. Nick prayed for him as the congregation sang the week's Psalms, his quiet tenor captured and amplified into heaven by the graceful arches of the ceiling.

After Mass the crowd milled about in front of the door, exchanging hearty greetings and handshakes with each other. Nick made nice for a few minutes before spotting Silvio in the crowd. With relief he caught the smaller man's attention and left the church, scanning the street for his car.

"In a hurry today?" the Sicilian asked, moving up by his side. Nick shrugged.

"The sooner we get paid, the sooner we can eat. I've got a craving for _primavera_, don't ask me why."

"Mm, now you're going to get me hungry," Silvio chided playfully, unlocking their vehicle. "Want to stop somewhere on the way back?"

"_Pazzo!_ With the money in the car? Let's just get this over with, then we can take our time." The dark-haired assassin slipped into the passenger's side and buckled up – in Boston traffic, you could never be too careful.

* * *

><p>"Papa called, he's got another job for you," Silvio told him when he returned from the meeting, briefcase in hand. "A big one, it sounded like."<p>

Nick noticed the tone in his friend's voice and raised an eyebrow. Apparently something was afoot.

"There's always more work in this business," he replied smoothly. "And I always get the tough assignments, so what's new?"

"Oil money, that's what," the driver answered in an awed whisper, shifting out of park. "Some western baron out for revenge, big bucks on the table." Nick frowned.

"Just another hit, _amico_. Don't get so excited, you know what they say about loose lips."

"Sure, sure. But I love the stories, and this one's going to be _un grande affare_. I can feel it."

The assassin shook his head with a little smirk, intrigued in spite of himself. Silvio was the romantic one, but Nick had to admit that an epic tale of betrayal and retribution always made a job more fun. Usually because the client wanted something especially degrading done to the mark. It was always a pleasure to oblige.

They drove out of the urban center and soon turned onto a broad residential street lined with trees. Large, fancy houses stood in the middle of perfectly landscaped grounds, and they approached one that was ringed by a wrought-iron fence. Silvio leaned out his window to press a button by the gate, and after a moment the computerized mechanism let them pass. Gravel crunched beneath their tires as they followed the driveway to a small parking lot hidden behind the sprawling stone house. Several vehicles were already there, mostly drab and easily forgettable; but one sleek black sedan screamed money.

They were greeted at the door by Carmine himself, jubilant as usual, but there was extra sparkle in his broad grin today. His lean frame was dressed in a very fine suit and his hug was just a little too tight, crushing Nick's ribs slightly in welcome.

"The man of the hour, my boy! Give that case to Donatta and come with me, we have a very special visitor!"

The assassin surrendered his burden to the young man who stepped up to claim it and followed his sponsor to a dark-paneled library. Carmine cleared his throat as they entered, and the room's occupant turned around.

"Allow me to introduce Nicolas Crisci, our very best. Nick, this is Mr. Graham, chairman of the board at Tychon Corporation."

"A pleasure," Nick said respectfully. The oil man had the weathered look of someone fit gone slightly to seed, tanned skin carved with deep lines and hair so white it glowed. He wore a dark blue suit with a turquoise-laden bolo tie, and an immodest number of gaudy silver rings that clicked against the assassin's own adornments as they shook hands. His skin was dry as paper.

"From what I hear of you, the honor is mine," the Texan replied in an easy drawl.

"Mr. Graham has a little job for you," Carmine explained, pouring a glass of white wine that the younger man accepted gladly. "He's been waiting to get back at somebody for quite a while now. We are of course happy to help."

"Who's the target?" Nick asked mildly, raising his glass to his lips. Mr. Graham's already hard eyes went just that much harder, and his voice went from pleasant to downright ugly.

"Low-down, filthy, meddling kid," he growled. "I've tracked him here from Corpus Christi, took me eight months, and I want his _head_." The oil baron took a forceful breath through his nose, snorting like a bull, then with effort moderated his tone. His audience began to feel inexplicably uneasy.

"Twenty-one, about five-eight, muscly Georgian bastard with light brown hair. Always wears a blue-and-white baseball cap. Name of Ellis Robert Deveaux."

Nick very nearly sprayed pino grigio across the executive's crisply starched shirt. He hid the sudden shaking of his hand by swirling his glass of wine contemplatively, and gazed into it to mask his shocked eyes.

"Anything else to go on?" he asked lazily, affecting boredom with every dram of acting prowess he possessed.

"He's working as a mechanic in Cambridge. My people couldn't get any farther without invading your Family's... _jurisdiction_. But he shouldn't be hard to find."

"Crisci never has a hard time finding anybody," Carmine chuckled proudly. Nick finally got control of himself and looked up with a self-confident smirk.

"I do requests, too," he added smoothly. "Want anything special, or will a clean headshot suffice?"

"Slit his throat." Graham's grin was more than a little crazy. "Cut it wide open and bring me a picture. I don't care what you do with the body."

Nick gave a slight tilt of his head in acknowledgment and took a sip of wine. It tasted like ashes in his mouth.


	7. Traitor

"Hey, man, didn't expect ta see ya again so soon!"

Ellis and his guest looked up in surprise as Nick strode forcefully into the room; but the look on his face made the southerner's blood run cold.

"Get out," the assassin spat, glaring poison daggers at the young woman sharing the couch. She jumped up in fright and Ellis followed, placing a calming hand on her back with a bewildered glance at the intruder.

"'S all right, Kay, he's my... uh, my landlord. Butcha better go, he ain't lookin' too happy. Call me t'morrow?"

The girl nodded tightly and tied her dirty-blonde hair back, startled expression morphing quickly into annoyance.

"When I do you better tell me what's so important it justifies throwing me out, El," she scolded, giving him a peck on the cheek. It made him blush happily despite the dark figure menacing him from the corner.

"I will just's soon's I find out my own self," he replied, nudging her gently towards the door. "But really, I got a feelin' ya don' wanna be here much longer. I'll make it up to ya, I promise!"

She turned back to raise an eyebrow heavy with meaning, glanced at Nick with irritation, and stalked away with dignity. When she was thoroughly gone the assassin stepped forward, looming dangerously over the shorter man with a face like stone.

"Sit down."

Ellis sat.

"What's wrong, Nick? I didn't think ya'd be back 'til ya got another-"

"Job. I did. And it's you."

He expected the Georgian to be scared. He expected confusion. He expected an indignant demand for answers – not the submissive slump of his shoulders, or the hopeless resignation in his suddenly sad blue eyes.

"Ya gonna shoot me?"

"Contract says I cut your throat," Nick growled. "But before I do, would you mind telling me why the fuck some _dannata_ crazy-ass cowboy is out for your blood?"

Unnoticed tears began to leak down the boy's cheeks and Nick's throat went tight. He flashed back to six months ago and could feel the sobbing on his chest again, the cinderblocks at his back and the strong hand desperately clutching his shirt. But he didn't let it get to him, merely stood there and watched as the mechanic melted completely.

"Never did get around ta tellin' ya why I left Georgia," Ellis said when he got himself together, voice husky with sorrow. "One time 'bout eight months back, me an' Keith, we was out in Texas fer a car show, an' there was this... Aw hell, that don't matter none. Basic'ly all that happened was Keith wanted a smoke. We was sittin' on a big ol' pipe outside town, jus' watchin' traffic on th' highway, an' he drops his match... I ain't never seen so much fire in my life." Nick's cold eyes went wide.

"Oil. You blew up an oil line," He said, flabbergasted. Ellis looked a bit sheepish.

"Well... Gasoline, yeah. My hand t'God I dunno how we made it outta there alive. Keith nearly didn't... But he'd been burned worse before, only had ta stay in th' hospital a week that time. All I got was this, from metal flyin' around." He touched the scar on the bridge of his nose and smiled faintly. "Thanks ta him, anyhow. Pushed me outta th' way, 's how I'm still standin'."

"Real touching, I'm sure," the hitman snapped. "So your buddy pissed off the Tychon Corporation. Why are they after you?"

Ellis' face went cold at the question and his hands slowly clenched into fists. If Nick hadn't been so upset, he'd have been fascinated by this never-before-seen side of his young mechanic friend.

"He's a monster," the fugitive said tightly. "That Graham feller, he caught th' blame fer lettin' th' gas leak so long without fixin' th' pipe. Got him so mad he chased us both halfway 'cross the country. We didn't find out 'til we were home, an'..." His voice wavered again, but he swallowed hard and pressed on. "They came when we were at th' garage, lookin' like cops. We figured Keith was jus' in trouble fer blowin' up a tractor or somethin', so we went with 'em. I figured I'd hafta post bail again... But they didn't take us to th' station. They said he was gonna pay fer what he did, by havin' ta watch 'em kill me."

A detached part of Nick's mind admired the cleverness of the ruse. Dressing up like the fuzz was just asking for trouble, up here; but to catch a good-hearted kid like Ellis, it was the perfect trap.

"They took us a long ways off, all th' way ta some empty lot in Glennville. They'd tied our hands but I had a couple a' tools in my back pocket an' managed ta cut 'em loose, an' when they took us outta th' car we ran. I didn't even... I didn't think they mighta had guns. They... they shot him. I got away."

It was clearly taking more and more effort on the kid's part to keep from collapsing in sobs again. He held his head in his hands, elbows propped on his knees. Nick didn't know what he was feeling, but whatever it was, it was far too intense. He made a small noise, clearing his throat while deciding what to say, but was interrupted.

"Oh, wait, that ain't th' worst part," Ellis laughed - weakly, bitterly. "They got home before me. By th' time I made it back, my... my ma an' lil' Sadie were dead." His voice cracked on the last word and the tears finally came, ripping dull howls from his chest.

"Who is Sadie?" asked Nick in a flat voice, though he already knew the answer.

"My... my little sister, she... she was eight...!"

The young man curled in on himself, crying uncontrollably. Nick couldn't handle it – despite all the blood on his hands, regardless of the depraved pleasure he took in his victims' death throes, this display had him paralyzed. He stood frozen in the middle of the room, watching Ellis mourn with a face as rigid as a statue's; the child didn't deserve to die.

Nick looked down on his weeping angel, momentarily closed his eyes, and with a desperate prayer put his fate into the hands of God.

"Get up. And turn off your cell phone."

"Wh... what're y-"

"If I was going to kill you I'd never have come here to talk, nowmove."

"Where-

"Somewhere I can keep an eye on you while I figure out what the hell I'm gonna do. _Andiamo!_"

He roughly yanked the kid upright and propelled him towards the door. Events were entirely out of hand and spiraling rapidly into utter ruination. It was time to get some backup.

* * *

><p>Alessandra returned home to find her husband in the kitchen, absentmindedly shuffling cards with his Magnum stripped down on the table in front of him. He stared at the pieces, nimble fingers coaxing the deck into a frantic dance. He didn't look up as she slipped out of her shoes, put her bags down on the counter and came to stand behind him. The smell of tobacco was heavy in the air.<p>

Nick felt her hands begin to knead his shoulders, and closed his eyes in silent gratitude. She always seemed to know exactly what to say – or not say – when he was upset. Tonight she let him think until his hands missed a beat and sent cards scattering every which-way with quiet _fwip_s. They slid through the air like falling leaves to land softly on the floor.

"_Cazzo_," he sighed despondently. "The biggest payout of my life, and I can't do it. A _million_, Aly! What the hell's wrong with me?"

"Want something to drink, honey?" Alessandra asked, wisely avoiding the immediate issue for the time being.

"No... I need to think." Nick reached instead for another cigarette and dragged the smoke greedily into his lungs. The nicotine didn't do much to steady his nerves, so he dropped it listlessly into the ashtray with the others to watch it smolder down.

The assassin's wife slid his jacket from his shoulders and worked soothingly strong fingers into the knotted muscles underneath, holding her tongue until a final twist of smoke escaped from the burnt-out filter. Then with a last squeeze she sat attentively in the chair next to him.

"Work sucks," she said lightly. "But sulking won't make it any better. Talk to me."

After four years with her he was well-trained, and responded to her subtle command without regard for the danger of revealing his secrets.

"A bigshot oil executive took out a contract with us today," he began. "My cut's a straight million. I can only imagine what Carmine is getting. And the mark's a loudmouth hillbilly who couldn't spot a tail if I draped myself in the flag and made him carry me on his back."

"Sounds like a cakewalk. Where's the 'but?'"

"The 'but' is that this guy's been living in one of my hideouts for the past six months," Nick muttered with a grimace. "I saved his life. He keeps the place nice for me. Hell, I like him. I don't _want_ to kill him. Especially since I found out the client's steamed because the kid's dumbass friend set a fire – by _accident_." He glared furiously at his hands, clenching them repeatedly as if they circled someone's throat.

Alessandra's face was hard in the corner of his vision. She was one of only three people in the world he couldn't read like a book, and he feared her fiery Florentine anger. Quickly he pressed on, regretting having started but far too deep to stop now. He never could say no to her.

"That's not the worst part. This... this _porco miserabile_ hunted down his family, too. His mother and baby sister. Killed them both because his stupid _friend_ couldn't wait to have a smoke!" When Nick got truly furious he did not raise his voice; it got cold and deadly as a viper's hiss. "My marks are already up to their eyes in violence and corruption, or nobody would want them dead. But Ellis... he doesn't deserve this."

He stared at the cards on the floor for a long time. Alessandra didn't move or say anything, letting the seconds pass unmarked as she presumably searched for an answer. The conflicted hitman worked to control the thoughts and feelings that racked his brain, finding not just anger towards "Mr. Graham" but also disappointment in himself. The very first rule of his profession existed for a reason: Never let emotion interfere with the work.

"This isn't just about what he deserves, is it?" Alessandra finally asked. Nick raised his head and met her sparkling eyes, so bright and keen and able to strip him down like a pistol to see everything he kept hidden from the world – even what he kept hidden from himself. "You two are close. Any closer and I'd have to get jealous, am I right?"

Of course she was right, and she knew it. But Nick had never seen things that way, and when the truth of it hit he looked away in shame.

"Trust me, you've got nothing to worry about," he growled uncomfortably. His wife laughed.

"Who said I was worried? You'd slit your own throat if I told you to. No, there had to be something special to keep you from doing your job, especially for that kind of money. I never thought I'd see the day my big, tough _assassino_ would balk because of morals, and I was right. I haven't yet."

"What's your point?" Nick muttered, humiliated. Alessandra leaned back and crossed her arms.

"Where is he?" she asked sharply. "You haven't let him go, if you're half as smart as I give you credit for."

"Locked in the bathroom."

"_Portarlo qui._"

He meekly stood to do as he was told, and opened the bathroom door to drag the prisoner to the kitchen. For once Ellis had nothing to say, and followed his captor dejectedly.

"Aly, this is Ellis. Ellis, my wife, Alessandra Crisci."

"Uh... Pleasure ta meetcha, ma'am," the mechanic stuttered, remembering his manners. Aly ignored the offered hand and replied with a smirk that rivaled her husband's in cynicism.

"I can see why you like this _ragazzo_, Nicolas. _Molto bello_," she teased, looking the southerner over appraisingly and making both the men's faces turn red. "Where are you from, Ellis?"

"Savannah," he replied nervously. "Look, I don' wanna be any trouble, I'll get outta yer apartment an'... an' move ta Canada, or somethin'..."

"You'll do no such thing," she interrupted forcefully. "They'd still track you down, and it would ruin Nick's reputation to lose a kill. We can't have that, can we?"

"Uh. No?" Ellis said anxiously.

"Then our only option is to finish the job. We get paid, that _psicotico stronzo_ of a client goes home and everyone's happy."

Nick stared at his wife in shock, indignation building in his chest; but he was kept from answering by the saddest, most resigned little voice he'd ever heard.

"I... I guess I understand..." Ellis whispered, staring heartbroken at the floor. "Jus' do me one favor, an' tell... tell Kaylee I love her. An' I'm sorry."

"_No_," the assassin growled, enraged. He glared at Aly ferociously, feeling betrayed. "_Io non lo farò_. I won't kill him. Not even for you!"

They stared intensely at each other for a solid minute, eyes hard and bright as gemstones; then, to Nick's eternal bafflement, Alessandra grinned.

"Good. You'll need those _sfere di acciaio_, my love - we're going to fake it."

A dropped pin would have made quite a loud noise at that point. Both men openly gaped at her, realization slowly dawning.

"Y'mean..."

"Yes, I do."

"Carmine would kill me if he found out. Hell, _il capo_ himself would gut me as a traitor!"

"Then they'd better not find out, darling," Aly purred. "It's a choice between that or letting him go, and don't tell me you'd rather live in disgrace. I know you too well to believe it."

"_F__iglio di puttana,_" Nick breathed, stuck somewhere between anger, relief, fear and adoration for the brilliant and beautiful woman standing so confidently in front of him.

"Lemme get this straight, yer gonna _pretend_ ta kill me?" Ellis seemed to be having trouble with the concept - though given the circumstances, who could really blame him?

"_Esatto_," Alessandra answered. "I work in theater. By the time I'm done with you, the city coroner will sign the death certificate himself."

"Great... That's jus'... peachy." The young man was already fairly pale, and swallowed as if to keep from being sick.

Meanwhile Nick was coming to better grips with the idea, and liking it more with every consideration. Out of a field of bad choices it seemed the best alternative, and slowly a dark smile crept across his face.

"You can give your girlfriend that message yourself, kid," he said quietly. "All I need is a convincing picture. You'll have to lie low for a while, maybe change your name... But you'll get out of this alive. I give you my word."

Green eyes smoldering with determination caught the southerner's terrified cerulean ones for a moment, then turned to Alessandra's and melted. Nick sent prayer after prayer to Mother Mary, thanking Her over and over for the gift of his wife.

"What we have is yours, Ellis," she told their guest. "You won't be leaving for a while."


	8. Father

Nobody slept much that night.

They stayed in the kitchen for a while, explaining more of the situation to Alessandra and piecing together a plan of action. She eventually went to bed, leaving Nick and Ellis alone to talk; but for a long time neither said anything. The assassin stared out the eighth-floor window overlooking the street, watching the sparse Sunday-night crowd flow back and forth. Behind him the mechanic played fifty-two pick-up, collecting and stacking the cards that lay scattered on the floor. When he was done he set up a game of Klondike solitaire, silently losing again and again as the clock ticked into Monday.

"I'll bring your stuff over in the morning," Nick said suddenly, making Ellis jump a bit. "You're going to be here at _least_ a week, and I'm not letting you wear my clothes."

"Reckon they wouldn't fit anyhow."

"Anything in particular you want? There's only so much I can carry on the subway, and I can't be seen going back and forth a dozen times."

"Uh... Nothin' special really... My toothbrush, some shirts... I'm guessin' th' Xbox is too much," he joked half-heartedly.

"You guess right."

Another period of silence. Ellis dealt and re-dealt the cards until he sat back with a sigh, and picked up his hat from its place on the table.

"It don't take much ta see I'm lost," he said quietly, turning the cap over and over in his hands. "I ain't been nothin' but trouble ta yew an' here ya go savin' my life fer... what, th' third time? Even though it could getcha inta a bigger mess'n I've ever been – not that I ain't grateful, mind, cuz by now I'd basic'ly do anythin' for ya – but I don't understand why ya keep stickin' yer neck out for me."

"Me neither, goddammit," Nick whispered, and turned from the window. He sat across the table from the melancholy young man and dropped his face into his hands. "I could have just let you die in that alley. I didn't have to take you in, either. I should have cut your throat when I had the chance..."

"But you didn't," came a gentle voice from the hall. Alessandra rejoined them in the kitchen, ebony hair tied loosely back and a soft smile on her face. "_Dai_, Nicolas, isn't it obvious?"

He found himself drowning in her eyes again, and the meaning in their clear depths took his breath away. He suddenly knew and accepted the truth: there were no accidents; meeting Ellis had been the hand of God guiding their paths.

"_Z__ingara strega_," he breathed. Aly turned to the bewildered Georgian and smiled.

"You remind him of himself," she explained. "Twenty years ago-"

"Twenty-one," Nick muttered. "I turn thirty-four next week, God help me."

"All right, twenty-one years ago," his wife picked up smoothly. "Nicolas' birth parents threw him out onto the street. He was just as lost as you-"

"Not true," her partner interrupted again, addressing the refugee this time. "_I_ found _you_ about to get raped by a bunch of thugs. Carmine found _me_ beating the piss out of two men twice my size."

"That's nice, _tesoro_, but beside the point," Alessandra said with exaggerated patience as Ellis gaped at Nick in awe. "The point is that, to some degree, he sees himself in you."

"You'd make a terrible assassin, though," the older man snarked in an attempt to salvage some of his machismo.

"Damn straight," the southerner said shakily. "Y'all are startin' ta scare me."

"Only starting? You're dumber than you look."

_"Sta 'zitto!_" The Romani woman gave her husband a whack upside the head, the sight of which made Ellis laugh. He managed to stop before he descended into hysterics. "It's bedtime, boys – we all need some rest if we're going to pull off our little ruse. _Venire a letto, assassino mio_."

Nick rubbed at his stinging ear and watched her go with something nobody with any sense would dare call a sulk. He then set about reassembling his Magnum, going slowly so he wouldn't have to face her for a few minutes. Ellis studied his game of solitaire with a faraway look in his eyes.

"Nick?" he said hesitantly after a few moments of quiet. The older man ran a finger along his Eagle's recoil spring, but did not look up.

"What is it, kid?"

"D'ya think... if Mrs. Crisci's plan works..."

"It's Aly. She'll gut you if she hears you call her 'Mrs.'"

"Uh, okay. If Aly's plan works, an' I c'n have my own life back an' all, would it be okay fer... Couldja still- I mean, I'll get my own place right quick, I've been savin' up..."

"Yes, you can stay in the apartment." Nick cut off his rambling with a tired answer.

"Oh... well, thanks, but... that ain't the question."

The assassin stopped twirling the piston shaft around and jammed it roughly into the slide recess, then raised exhausted eyes to the mechanic.

"Then what are you asking?"

Ellis fidgeted.

"I was hopin' ta set up here, in Boston... Th' garage's a good place ta work, an' Kaylee... Lord, I wanna stay with her... An' if I can, I'd really like it if... Ya could still c'mon over ta visit sometimes. I owe ya, like, a billion pancakes. An' yer real good on th' Xbox..."

A light blush flitted across his cheeks as he spoke, and Nick could tell it wasn't because of the girl. He saw the young man's blue gaze begin to focus on his face once more, and quickly looked down at his gun to hide the expression he couldn't control. Only Alessandra could make him feel this way, goddammit...

"Aren't you getting ahead of yourself, _ottimisico_?" he growled, unable to conceal a hint of affection in the words. "_If_ the _zimbello_ falls for it and _if_ we can keep you safe 'til everyone forgets you exist... Then sure, kid, I'll come game with you. Those zombies aren't going to kill themselves."

Busy snapping bits of metal together, the assassin couldn't see the joyful grin bloom on Ellis' face. If he had, he might have been embarrassed.

"That means so much ta me, man, y'got no idea," the southerner said quietly. He watched the Magnum take shape under his protector's skilled hands, fast becoming thoughtful as something else occurred to him. Nick felt the next question hanging in the air, and preempted another awkward, rambling inquiry with a harsh sigh.

"I was thirteen. My father threw me out when my mother died and I lived for three months in an alley by the Charles. Carmine spotted me fighting a couple of hobos over a blanket and thought I'd be worth training. I'm lucky I've got the blood, or _il capo_ wouldn't have let him keep me."

Ellis hung on every word, as attentive to the hitman as a bomb-sniffing dog to its handler. He absorbed the story for a moment, then opened his mouth again.

"Why'd yer dad..."

"You don't want to go down that road with me, boy," Nick interrupted firmly. "I've told you more than enough already. Just be glad it was me and not Alonso that night. He'd probably have joined in the fun."

The stark truth in his voice made the mechanic shudder and thank his lucky stars that the more merciful man had come along. He gave a start as his savior rammed the magazine home with a sharp _sssnikk_, and slowly shook his head in surrender.

"Anythin' I c'n do, an' I mean _any_thin', jus' ask me," he said. "I ain't got th' words ta thank ya proper..."

"Don't try," the assassin said sharply, rising from the table. "I don't do _emozionante _crap, so just leave it."

"But..."

"Look, if it makes you feel better, we're _friends_!" Nick threw his hands in the air, tired, defeated and very much wanting time alone to think. "We're family. Family looks out for each other. That's just how it is. Let it _go_."

He turned and walked away, desperately needing some rest. In the bedroom Alessandra was reading a book on stage makeup, taking notes on a pad of legal paper.

"_L__ui non è mio figlio_," Nick grumbled as he got ready for bed. His wife put aside her research and smiled that mysterious little smile of hers, the one that was invariably infuriating.

"Whatever you say, _amore_," she crooned, pulling back the sheets for him. "It doesn't really matter so much now, if your mind is made up. _È troppo__ tardi per i ripensamenti_."

He slid into bed beside her, staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out if his mind really _was_ made up. Aly's cool fingers gently turned his face to her, and she looked him straight in the eye.

"It will work, Nicolas. Everything is going to be fine. Trust me."

He closed his eyes, brow furrowed with care, and lightly kissed her forehead.

"_Grazie, Alessandra_," he whispered. "_Ti amo._"

"_Ti amo troppo_," she replied, and they fell into a sleep of fitful dreams.


	9. Babysitter

His first cigarette of the day calmed the roiling coffee in his otherwise empty stomach. Normal commuters gave him a wide berth on the sidewalk, wisely choosing to avoid the scary-looking businessman with the suitcase. Nick was fine with this.

The train ride was more of the same. He seethed the whole time, wishing that everyone in the car would just _drop dead_ – and had to restrain himself from actually making it so. Though his fingers itched to draw it, his Magnum stayed tucked securely under his arm.

When Nick got to Elli- no, _his_ apartment he threw the suitcase open on the bed and began to paw through the drawers. With utter disinterest he pulled out a few pairs of jeans, some t-shirts, a jacket and a stack of neatly-folded boxers. When these items were stowed the hitman went to wash his hands, and snagged the kid's toothbrush while he was at it. There were some other hygienic items in the bathroom that he also appropriated, snorting in amusement at the more feminine duplicates of deodorant, razors and shampoo. Apparently Ellis' little girlfriend stayed over a lot. It was kind of cute. And such a shame.

Nick was throwing together something to eat when he felt a tingle on his thigh. Instantly he dropped the cheese and shoved a hand into his pocket, checking the caller I.D. as he pulled out the buzzing phone.

Uh-oh.

"_Buongiorno, _Papa," he said, forcing the morning rasp out of his voice.

"How goes it, my boy? Found our unfortunate friend yet?"

"Easy," Nick replied, toying with a couple of eggs on the counter. "The trick's going to be catching him alone. Gregarious little fucker."

Carmine chuckled, jovial even at this early hour. The sound was garbled unpleasantly through the cheap speaker.

"You're a magician, Nicolas. I'm glad I caught you before the hit – there's been a change of plans."

One of the eggs came dangerously close to smashing on the linoleum.

"What kind of change?"

"New request. Graham decided he wants video, of the _meridionale _burning to death."

An egg cracked viciously on the lip of the bowl, sending fragments of shell in with the yolk.

"Tell him he'll have to wait for it, then," Nick growled, fishing them out. "That kind of show takes a lot more-"

"He knows. And he's offered you another million, two if you get it done in a week."

The other egg died a messy yellow death on the floor.

"I'll see what I can do."

As soon as the phone was shut Nick hurled it, over the counter and across the room. It landed on the couch, undamaged, but he didn't notice. He just paced, furious, staring with blank hatred at the splattered slime under his feet. What the hell was he supposed to do now? That sort of video couldn't be faked, not to any convincing degree. Maybe he could find some homeless _gioielli_to take Ellis' place, and record the hick's voice over it... But there wasn't time to go trawling through the city's sewers to find the mechanic a doppelganger, and he didn't have the right equipment to mix the audio anyway.

At the very least he'd have to tell Alessandra to get a different kind of makeup. He instinctively reached for his pocket and snarled when his phone wasn't there, then turned instead to search the living room for the discarded gadget. Somewhat relieved to find it intact, he snatched it up and dialed seven – but before he hit "call" he had a brilliant idea, maybe even a lifeline. Anxious but hopeful, he paced as the ring-back sounded in his ear.

_Riinngg._

_ Riinngg._

_ Rii_-

"Hey, honey, you ran out on us this morning," a sweet, sleepy voice answered the call. Nick's heart leaped.

"I'm getting Ellis' stuff while I can blend in with morning commute. Listen, I just got a call from Carmine. Can you do burns?"

"Burns?"

"With your _cosmetici,_ instead of blood. The _cazzo_ changed his mind, wants the kid burned alive."

"_Sì, certo_," Aly answered with a yawn. "It's actually easier than an open wound. This _maniaco_ really holds a grudge, doesn't he?"

"You can say that again," Nick muttered angrily. "Can you do me a favor before you go, though? Check what kind of cell phone Ellis has."

"_Uno minuti_."

There was a brief period of silence punctuated by rustling cloth and quiet mutters. The assassin felt a strange mix of relief and resentment when he picked up the lower tones of his young boarder; but it passed quickly when his wife resumed their conversation.

"It's an old flip-phone like yours, Nicolas."

"Is there a camera?" he asked forcefully.

"Yes."

"Can it film video?"

"I don't know..." More muffled voices. "No, it doesn't."

Nick sat down with a heavy sigh, a glimmer of hope now visible. He stretched out on the couch with his feet on the armrest, stared at the ceiling, and sent a prayer of thanks to both the Virgin Mary and Lady Luck. Just to cover his bases.

"That's _perfect_," he said. "We just have to worry about one shot, then. Forget the video. On Thursday I want to see him burned to a crisp, _chiaro_?"

"_Sissignore_," Aly purred, then paused. "Ellis wants to talk to you."

"_Bene_, hand him over."

A bit of static.

"I ain't gonna ask why th' plan's changin', I jus' wanna know if I c'n call Kaylee an' tell her I'm okay..."

"No," Nick said firmly, regretting the necessity of the answer. "You have to disappear. That means Ellis Deveaux no longer exists. He's dead. Everyone you knew has to think you're gone."

"But-"

"I'm sorry, champ," the assassin said, and was surprised to find that he meant it. "When this blows over you can find her again."

"That ain't fair," came the sad, muttered reply.

"Welcome to life, kid. If you're interested in staying here, that's the way things gotta be."

The only answer was the little melodic burble that indicated a dropped call. Ellis had hung up on him.

Nick looked down at his phone with an unreadable face. Slowly he closed it, and held it clenched in his fist for a moment. Life really wasn't fair.

He cleaned up the eggy mess and finished preparing an omelette, then collapsed on the couch once more. The TV was set to the wrong input when he turned it on, so he scanned the remote for the correct button to change it – and paused.

How much room was left in that suitcase?

Aly was just leaving when he came back home, which was perfect because he didn't want to leave Ellis alone in the apartment. They kissed each other good-bye in the doorway, which made their young guest shift uncomfortably, and exchanged quick muttered reassurances before parting ways.

"I'll keep an eye on him today, I'm not going anywhere."

"Don't get up to anything while I'm gone, _amore_. Ellis! Keep this one out of trouble!" Alessandra called, and gently prodded Nick in the chest. He promptly caught her hand and kissed it.

"I'll do my best, ma'- uh, I'll do my best."

Ellis flushed a little at his slip of the tongue, but the woman smiled cheerfully and waved on her way out the door.

As soon as the lock engaged Nick lugged his suitcase over to the couch and sat heavily, as though his legs had been kicked out from under him. The mechanic didn't quite meet his eyes.

"You've got enough clothes now, and toiletries," the hitman said flatly. "Don't worry about buying new toothpaste, or food, or anything. Your job's bringing me at least a million bucks, maybe two or three. I'll get you a goddamn personal chef if you feel like it."

All he got was a weak chuckle.

"I know this is a crappy situation," he sighed, crossing his arms behind his head. "But resenting what's necessary will just make it worse. Go on and unpack."

Ellis dully regarded the suitcase for a moment, then slid off the couch and onto his knees. He pulled at the zipper, circling it around to the end of its track, and flipped open the top.

Nick kept a straight face despite the sudden urge to smile. His young friend stared down into the case for a moment, then raised his head with a huge, slightly watery grin plastered all over it.

"I thought... But y'said... Ya brought it!"

The excited young man vaulted right over the suitcase – clothes, XBox and all – to practically body-slam his guardian with a massive, crushing hug. It was lucky for him that Nick was relaxed at home, or he probably would have ended up hurt. The startled assassin's breath left his lungs in a whoosh, and his pistol was suddenly jabbing quite hard into his side.

"Easy there, fireball," the older man managed to gasp, awkwardly guiding Ellis off of him. "The thing wasn't full, and since I won't be running around hell and creation hunting my target..."

"Yer th' _best_, Nick. I mean it," the Georgian said earnestly, plunking himself back down on the floor to set up the console.

"Damn skippy," Nick chuckled. He adjusted his jacket, then thought better of it and instead just took it off. "I'll prove it, too. Gimme."

Ellis connected some cables, browsed a few lime-green menus, and tossed the assassin one big white controller.

"So are we shootin' zombies or aliens?"


	10. Artist

"Phantom, _phantom!_ Shoot it!"

"Holdjer horses, I ain't got enough ammo..."

"Then kill that guy, he's got a rocket launcher."

"Jesus, either take th' controller or quit backseat drivin'!"

"Fine, fine. Watch out for that dropship."

Nick bit his tongue and watched as Ellis' little team of supersoldiers was overrun by hulking alien Elites. His immortal NPC companions kept getting back up, but when Noble Six went down it was game over. The mechanic frowned, full lips pouting like a child's, and quit to the main menu.

"Think yew c'n do any better?"

Ellis got up from his cross-legged position on the floor and joined his host on the sofa, wincing as he stretched his legs. The older man snatched up the offered controller with a smirk and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees to focus on the HD screen.

"Legendary is what I do, kid. Watch and learn."

He selected the same stage and hit the ground running, but halfway through the first combat sequence they heard a key scrape in the lock. With a few hollow clicking noises the front door swung open, and Nick hit the pause button to go help Alessandra with her bags.

"You're home early," he murmured, kissing her on the cheek. "No show tonight?"

"Sound check," she answered, divesting herself of everything but a stained satchel. "They won't need me late for a few nights, _grazie a Dio_. But when they start on lighting I don't know when I'll get to sleep."

Ellis had sprung upright a few seconds after Nick, and when the couple had finished their affectionate greeting he timidly crossed over to them, offering out a hand.

"I c'n take somethin' for ya... Are those groceries? I dunno Italian recipes but I'll make dinner anyhow- Ooh, y'all ever had gumbo? Me an' Keith went ta N'Orleans once, an'..."

Aly propped one hand sassily on her hip, and shushed the rambling southerner with a finger.

"Cooking and carrying is what _il mio amato marito_is for," she quipped, tilting her head at the older man. He glowered at her over the kitchen counter, now laden with freshly unpacked vegetables. "You and I have work to do."

The glint in her eye made Ellis nervous, and his amusingly trepidacious face coaxed a grin out of Nick. Dinner and a show, indeed.

He assembled his ingredients and watched as Alessandra gently shoved Ellis into a chair. She set her case down on the table and snapped it open to reveal a brilliantly colorful collection of powders, pastes, and pencils. It looked like a painter's bag, but her canvas was the human face. She began to dig through it, picking out a wide range of reds, blacks, browns and purples.

"So did you boys have a good day?" she asked, as if they were her children come home from school.

"Fine," Nick answered, inspecting a large onion.

"Oh, man, it was great," Ellis gushed, anxiety forgotten for the moment. "He brought over my XBox, an' we played fer _hours_, an' he showed me how t'do a couple card tricks..."

"Mostly I schooled him in Halo," the assassin interrupted smugly, slicing the onion in half. "When I get paid I'm picking up some more games. It looks like the only thing he's got to do around here."

"Schooled you, hmm?" Aly teased, inspecting her subject's face closely. He went a little cross-eyed trying to look at her, and a little red with embarrassment. She scowled and sat back.

"No blushing," she admonished. "It ruins your coloring. Stay here."

She strode over to the bathroom, and the men heard the sound of running water. She returned quickly with two damp washcloths, and proceeded to scrub at the Georgian's face with one. He recoiled.

"Gah, hey! I ain't six, I c'n wash my face my own self!"

"Then why don't you?" Alessandra scolded with no real anger, and grabbed his chin to hold him still. "_Sporcizia_an inch thick, I swear..."

Nick chuckled, and drizzled some olive oil in a large pot. Swiftly he pushed the chopped onion in with the back of his blade and turned the stove on low heat. Almost immediately the little apartment smelled delicious. When he turned back to begin dicing garlic Aly had finished her impromptu scrub, and had pulled up a chair of her own to wait for the blood to drain from Ellis' bright pink cheeks.

"Wuzzat really necessary?" he half-whined, gingerly touching his newly clean skin. The artist tapped her foot impatiently.

"Yes. And when we do this for real, you're shaving first."

"Y'mean ya ain't takin' th' picture t'night?"

"Hell no," Aly snorted. "This is a color test so I know which pigments to bring home in bulk. I'm good, but I can't hide the whole green room on the subway."

"Green room?"

"Backstage, where the actors change and get made up."

"Oh."

For a moment the only sounds came from the kitchen, where the onions sizzled and Nick's knife rhythmically impacted the cutting board. He put aside the garlic and started on some mushrooms.

"All right, gimme your face," Alessandra sighed when Ellis was no longer quite so red. He cracked a smile at that but did as he was told.

Out came the sponges and the brushes and the rags, a seemingly endless supply of them. The artist began to sample her paints, putting dabs of this shade and that one side-by-side on the southerner's forehead and cheeks. She mixed some on a plate and tried the new colors. When she ran out of space she sat back, and surveyed her work with a gaze Nick knew from experience was extremely intimidating. Ellis shrank into himself a little, but to his credit managed not to blush again.

"All right, wipe it off," Aly ordered, scribbling down some notes.

"We're done?" the young man asked eagerly, reaching for the washcloth.

"Hardly," she said with a wicked little smile. "You're all mine for a long while yet, _ragazzo carino_."

Ellis' face fell; Nick's snapped to attention.

"Should _I_ be getting jealous, _dolcezza_?" he asked, only half-teasing – but he wasn't sure which of them he so suddenly felt protective of. Maybe both.

His wife laughed and put aside her notebook. She stood and stalked to the kitchen, disregarded the large knife in Nick's hand and kissed him so deep he nearly dropped it.

"No," she whispered matter-of-factly, pulling away. He just blinked at her, slightly dazed.

Alessandra smirked and returned to her art project – who, thanks to that little display, was once again beet red. She threw her hands up in defeat.

"This is going to take all night if you're constantly blushing," she announced. "Aren't you _un adulto_? Don't tell me I've got to explain the birds and the bees, too."

That didn't help at all, and Nick laughed outright at the horrified look on his young friend's face. It was nice to see somebody else get on the wrong side of her wit for a change.

Eventually they all settled down. The _Bolognese_ simmered away as Alessandra vandalized Ellis' visage over and over. Nick couldn't tell the difference between a lot of the colors she smeared on the southerner's cheeks, but that was her job and he trusted in her skill.

By the time dinner was ready Aly had gone through all the shades she wanted to, and her yellow legal pad was covered with indecipherable stagehand's code. She started to pack away her things, and dismissed her living canvas to wash up properly. He was thrilled to be out of the chair.

"That smells _amazin'_, Nick," he complimented on his way, hunger clear in his voice.

The chef felt quite pleased that the kid who made such delicious pancakes approved of his cooking, too. It was hard to keep from preening a bit as he got the plates and silverware out. Aly cleared off the table for him and went to stow her kit.

Nick meticulously arranged three place settings and put the serving bowls in the center.

"_Tutti a tavola per mangiare!_" he called to his wayward little family. It was dinnertime.


	11. Pyro

Ellis refused to allow either of his hosts to do the dishes. He whisked them all away to the sink and began to scrub enthusiastically, occasionally humming or whistling to himself. Nick and Aly remained at the table, she watching the mechanic intently and he staring out the window. It was almost full dark.

"_Will you keep an eye on him for a while?_" Nick glanced at his wife and whispered in Italian, not wanting the younger man to hear. "_I've got some prep to do._"

Alessandra's piercing gaze swung to meet him. She raised one elegantly curved eyebrow and he responded, their mere expressions eloquent enough to communicate without the added bother of further speech. With a tiny smile she acknowledged both his requests, and after a moment she nonchalantly rose from the table to join Ellis in the kitchen.

"How do you feel about _crostoli_, Ellis?" she asked, draping a companionable arm around his shoulders. The two of them were almost exactly the same height.

"Uh, sorry, 'bout what?"

_"Crostoli._ They're like fried dough, but crispier, and you can use them like chips to scoop up ice cream or jam or chocolate sauce." As she spoke her hand subtly trailed from his shoulder, down his back and to his waist.

"Ohh, that sounds amazin'!" the mechanic replied, elbow-deep in soapy water, oblivious to the nimble fingers that casually plucked his cell phone from the pocket of his baggy jeans. "Ya got some ready, or c'n ya show me how ta make it?"

"As soon as you're done with the dishes we'll start cooking. Hey, honey," Aly called in a singsong voice, sauntering back over to the table. "Be a dear and hit the store for us? We'll need toppings."

"Where am I supposed to get _spumoni_ at this time of night?" the assassin grumbled, discreetly accepting the stolen item and slipping it into his jacket.

"I don't care," his wife said breezily, resuming her seat. "Take as long as you need to find it, but don't come back empty-handed – or else."

Nick caught the sparkle in her eyes and struggled to keep from smiling. Instead he rose with a theatrical sigh and started to search for his jacket.

"_Sì, signora._"

Ellis snickered slightly at their exchange and continued his work. The hitman shouldered his holster before slipping into his coat, tucked his Eagle inside and faux-grumpily slouched his way out of the apartment. As soon as the door closed behind him he straightened up with a cold, purposeful glint in his eye, and pulled out a cigarette on his way down the stairs.

He had a few ideas as to location for the shoot. It would have to be somewhere with good ventilation, but he couldn't afford for the smoke to be seen. Nothing ruined a hit like the police and fire department showing up; it was always expensive to have the authorities forget things. Intent on avoiding such a situation the assassin prowled the slummier parts of the riverbank, both sides, poking his nose into every abandoned warehouse and burned-out basement on the way.

It was near his old stomping grounds that he found perfection. A half-destroyed apartment building slated for demolition stood by the water, gutted by fire and already crumbling. The basement was half-sunk, leaving a row of high windows at ground level that would vent the air nicely. It was isolated, hidden and condemned – nobody with any sense would go poking around in it. Even if a little smoke did escape, people would just assume some hobo or other had set up camp out of the wind.

And speaking of hobos...

Nick stopped short of thanking the Virgin, not wanting to attribute this sort of sinful luck to Her. In one squalid corner of the room lay a vagrant, passed out on a pile of newspaper and old clothing with a handful of bottles scattered around him. They all looked like strong liquor, not beer, and as the hitman cautiously approached the reek of it was overwhelming. He stood and regarded the poor fucker for a moment, noting his build and coloring (such as it was, under the dirt), and slowly an emotionless smile tugged at his lips. He'd only intended to photograph the scene, but sometimes you didn't look a gift horse in the mouth.

He marked his location and wandered to a nearby alley, where he MacGyver'd a siphon out of an old inner tube and stole a gallon milk-jug-full of gas from a run-down Toyota. He lugged it back to the spot along with whatever junk he could find to serve as rope. Then he knelt by the unfortunate drifter, said a prayer, and pistol-whipped him into true unconsciousness.

It wasn't hard to arrange the scene. Nick bound and gagged his victim securely and rolled him into the center of the room, away from anything that might set the building ablaze. Then he saturated the man's body with gasoline and left a short trail of it across the floor. He put the plastic jug in the burn zone to melt away the evidence, flicked open his lighter, and from a safe distance put spark to fuel.

Cruel excitement caught his lungs as the bright orange streak raced down his little fuse to its target. Instantly the liquid hydrocarbons began to combust, licking up the sacrifice's trussed-up torso and setting his hair alight. Though his forced slumber was fortunate for the doomed man, Nick couldn't help feeling a bit disappointed at the lack of writhing and screaming and begging for mercy. Instead the flames consumed their meal in flickering silence, charring cloth and flesh and filling the room with the sick scent of cooking meat and ashes.

The killer flipped open Ellis' phone, selecting the camera function. As the body burned he slowly walked around it, taking carefully framed shots that contained no possible information to reveal the identity of the incinerating corpse. The pictures were bright blurs of yellow and orange, fiery smears across the low-quality screen that could never do justice to the terrible spectacle. When Nick was satisfied with the selection he put the device away and just watched, deadpan, the reflection of the flames burning with demonic lust in his eyes.

He stayed until nothing was left but the charred framework of a body, which didn't take very long. When it was over he wrapped his hands with newspaper and dragged the corpse back into its corner, covered it with junk, and left. Nobody from the Family would be along to clean up his impromptu murder, but chances were slim that anyone at all would ever be coming down to see this.

The reek of gasoline and smoke clung to his suit. Remembering his errand, Nick lit a cigarette and masked the less pleasant stenches with the smell of tobacco instead. Before it could wear off he ducked into an all-night convenience store, snagging some ice cream and, after a moment's consideration, a six-pack of Budweiser.

"What took ya so long? Ya been gone fer _hours!_" Ellis demanded when he finally returned home. The apartment smelled of sweet rum and fried dough, an aroma the older man's abused nose welcomed gratefully.

"Ran into one of my brothers on the way, you know how it is." Nick hefted his purchases and dumped them on the table. "I got you a little something to make up for it."

"Aw shucks, man," the mechanic laughed upon seeing the beer. "Ya didn't hafta do that!"

"I don't _have_ to do anything," his host growled with a smirk that put the lie to his grumpy tone of voice. Ellis grinned at him, flicking the cap off a bottle with one strong thumb.

"Well I 'preciate it, Nick," he said, and took a swig. The liquid was already chilled from being outside.

"We made a few batches," Alessandra told her husband, holding out a bowl full of light, crispy dessert chips. "Open the ice cream, so we can eat these while they're fresh!"

"Ellis, do as the lady says," Nick deflected the command, moving for the bathroom. "Alfonso was in a bit of a mess when I saw him, I want to clean up before touching food."

Aly gave him a knowing smile as he passed, and planted a brief kiss on his cheek. The hitman positively glowed as he went to change, and allowed himself a sly grin in the mirror as he scrubbed the scent of death from his skin.

This might actually work.


	12. Sleeper

Thursday evening saw all three of them camped out in the derelict basement. Alessandra prepared large quantities of special-effects makeup while Nick gently attempted to tie up an understandably edgy Ellis. The shirtless mechanic fidgeted nervously as the assassin approached with a length of rope.

"I don't mind sayin', I ain't too comfortable right now..."

"Look, kid, this is a hell of a lot better than dying. Calm down, I'm not gonna hurt you."

"Uh, I... I _know_ that, it's jus'... it's _weird_, weirder'n all git-out, an'..."

"Shh. It's okay. Trust me."

Nick knelt by Ellis and placed a calming hand on his shoulder. The poor boy's skin was warm, nearly hot in contrast to the September air. The hitman pulled his arms forward and lashed together his wrists with the loosest knot he could, shushing the southerner like a skittish horse.

"Lucky you, I'm not doing your legs," he commented with a smirk. "We only need a close-up, so you can keep your pants on."

A weak half-chuckle was all that escaped from the nervous corpse-to-be.

"Lay down and hold still," Aly ordered, turning to face them with her hands full of supplies. Ellis did so meekly, wincing as the cold, dirty floor scratched against his bare back.

The usually chatty artist was intensely silent as she worked. Her hands flew over the Georgian's body, rapidly covering his chest with crinkly plastic and frayed canvas that would imitate the texture of charred flesh. A repurposed swimming cap hid his thick curls and strips of latex concealed his eyebrows. Then she moved on to color, using a broad brush to put down the first layer. Ellis squirmed.

"Oho, man, that tickles!" he cried, shivering as the New England air chilled the wet costume paint.

"It's going to be uncomfortable for a while, but we'll try to make it quick," Nick said wryly. "All we need is a couple of photos and I'll untie you as soon as we're done. Really, getting dressed up is the worst of it."

"Dressed down, more like," Ellis grumbled, torso half-covered with brown-black base. "How th' hell c'n anybody live this far north? It's fuckin' freezin'!"

"Magic," Aly snapped at him, reaching for a jar full of some thick black substance. "Quit shivering or this'll just take longer."

"We'll make something hot to drink when we get back," Nick said in a soothing voice, absentmindedly playing with his leftover rope. Ellis saw the motion and swallowed nervously. He didn't look very comforted.

Alessandra's temper eased when she was finished, and no longer had to focus quite so hard. She sat back and surveyed her work with satisfaction.

The Georgian was unrecognizable. Layers upon layers of canvas, plastic, paste and powder had transformed his healthy body into a carbonized lump of flesh. He had to keep his eyes squeezed shut, and the putty over his mouth kept him from speaking, but Nick knew exactly what he'd be saying if he could: "git me outta here!"

The assassin snapped a few pictures with the 'victim's' phone, thoroughly pleased with how the con was progressing. The headshots looked enough like Ellis to fool the client, but were definitely and convincingly photos of a dead man. He allowed himself a small grin as he closed the phone with a _snap_, and gave his wife a kiss on the cheek.

"_Tu sei la magia,_" he whispered to her, then picked up a large sponge. "All right, champ, let's get you out of this."

All of Alessandra's hard work disappeared in a flash. In a matter of minutes Ellis reappeared from under the char, and all three of them worked to get the makeup off. Nick filed away the experience as one of the weirdest things he'd ever done - it wasn't every day he gave a mark a sponge bath to bring him back from the dead.

"I c'n do it myself, y'all," the mechanic protested, wielding a damp rag. The married couple payed him no mind.

"We can see where you've missed a spot, _amore_," Aly chided, checking behind his ear. "_Ai, Dio_, do you never hold still?"

"Not so far as I can tell," Nick snarked, and grabbed Ellis by the chin to scrub at his face. "This is for your own good, sport. Hang on, hang on, you've got crap in your eyebrows..."

The mechanic settled for wiping down his arms and stomach while his production staff got the rest. By the time they were done he was shivering in earnest, plush lips close to turning blue as the cold river breeze chilled his damp skin. Alessandra shook out his clothes and returned them, briskly rubbing his shoulders to restart the circulation once he'd got a couple of layers on.

"Come on, El," Nick prompted when no trace of their activity remained in the room. "Hot chocolate sound good about now?"

"God, yes," the cold young man chattered.

"Then put on your hat and let's go."

With a heavy winter hat pulled low to hide his eyes Ellis followed them back to the T. Nick had a call to make, so Alessandra played chaperone while he stayed behind with a cigarette. The assassin absorbed the calming nicotine for a few minutes before even reaching for his phone, stomach still twisting nervously despite the familiar poison in his lungs.

_Riinngg._

_ Riinngg._

_ Rii_-

"_Ciao_, Nicolas! What's the news?"

"It's done, Papa," he growled. Carmine's breath hitched audibly on the other side of the line.

"_Dio mio_, so soon?" he whispered, stunned.

"I was trailing him and got lucky," Nick continued. "No need for a clean-up, but tell Graham I could only take stills. Kid's phone doesn't do video."

"_Fantastico_," his superior rasped, quite obviously the result of a strong drink. "_A__llucinante_, my boy! The Villa, tomorrow at noon. _Il capo_ will want to personally show his appreciation, I'm sure."

"_Grazie_, _Padre_," Nick replied humbly, struggling to keep his heartbeat out of his voice. When a little melodic burble chirped in his ear to indicate the end of the call he dropped the act, releasing a huge breath heavy with worry.

He leaned against a wall and smoked his cigarette down to the filter, staring into space through its harsh fumes. Autumn stars twinkled above, the subway rumbled below, and all around him the people of Boston went about their ordinary lives, blissfully unaware of their city's deadly shadows. The assassin watched them all as he faded into the background like a ghost, dissolving into the night and wondering if he'd made the right choice.

* * *

><p>By the time he got home the others were long since asleep. Two cocoa-stained mugs lay haphazardly in the sink, obviously left for him to wash as punishment for not coming back in time. That would have been Aly's idea, given how Ellis still seemed to worship at Nick's altar. The hitman shook his head tiredly and dealt with the dishes before the milk could start to smell, then took a glass of his own from the cupboard and poured out a generous measure of brandy. If he was going to be seeing <em>il capo<em> tomorrow he'd need all the liquid courage he could get.

His tenant lay curled up on the couch, one arm dangling to the floor and still clutching his favorite hat. The sound of running water had apparently disturbed his slumber a bit, because when Nick relaxed into the armchair with a tiny sigh Ellis stirred. It was only a small movement, barely a twitch really, but the older man froze as though his life depended on remaining invisible. He watched intently as the mechanic snuggled deeper into the cushions, apparently falling back asleep quite easily. Before Nick could resume enjoying his drink, though, the southerner's brilliantly blue eyes drifted open.

For a moment the assassin stared, transfixed, on the verge of apologizing for the noise he'd made. His paralysis now wasn't a purposeful defense, but rather a complete inability to control his body. There were too many intense thoughts swirling through his mind, and too much powerful emotion tugging at his chest, for him to do anything but sit there silently until Ellis ducked his head again and lay still. He'd been out cold the entire time.

Nick watched the blanket rise and fall with the young man's chest. As he wrestled with his mental chaos he found himself hypnotized by the gentle rhythm, unconsciously breathing in sync with his fugitive friend. He calmed down enough to put some things into perspective, primarily the meeting tomorrow. Success depended on his ability to appear cool and confident - fear would only guarantee that he'd slip and ruin everything. Part of him ground its teeth that he was even having this problem because it meant he was getting soft, and a weak assassin was no assassin at all. He retaliated by asserting that it took a different kind of strength to pull off a con like this.

Back and forth he argued with himself, calling every aspect of his life into doubt only to reaffirm it again moments later. He agonized over the question of loyalty, and wondered if it might be smarter to turn tail and run. Faking his own death and moving to Italy was infinitely preferable to being called out as a traitor. Then again, that would only be necessary if he gave Carmine reason to suspect him; so he was back to deciding whether or not he had the balls to lie to _il capo_'s face.

He chased himself in circles for a while, stuck in the unpleasant mire of self-doubt, until a small, helpless sound snapped him out of it. With a start he saw that Ellis was dreaming again, struggling weakly against the air and muttering pained gibberish that knocked the breath right out of Nick's lungs.

"Nnh... Nnkeith... Kay... don't, leave 'm 'lone... Nick, help, dunletum... Nick...!"

The assassin's black heart melted completely. His brow pinched with care and he moved to the sleeping kid's side, kneeling by the couch although he hadn't the faintest idea of what to do. This was a mother's jurisdiction, or a lover's; comfort just wasn't in his job description.

Cautiously he placed a hand on Ellis' shoulder and squeezed gently. When that had no effect on the young man's distress he paused, glanced around the room as though afraid that someone might see, and moved up to cradle his face. Nick stroked his cheekbones awkwardly, smoothing the tormented lines from his eyes with tentative fingers. To his amazement they began to recede, and the mechanic's nightmare cries grew quieter. His success made him bolder, leaning close until messy brown curls tickled his chin.

"Shh, shh..." he whispered, a little embarrassed but deeply pleased that the kid thought of him as a protector. "Easy there, fireball, I'm here... I'm here, it's okay, it's gonna be okay..."

Ellis settled down under the assassin's timidly affectionate hands, tense body relaxing back into sleep with a pacified sigh. Nick retreated an inch at a time with a bittersweet smile, knowing now with every fiber of his being that there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell he was gonna let the kid down. Silently he poured his undrunk brandy into the sink and tiptoed to his own bedroom.

He slept soundly for the rest of the night.


	13. Liar

Silvio collected Nick from the train in a lather of excitement. The Sicilian's slim fingers drummed at the wheel, and he was unable to control the huge grin that kept appearing on his face.

"Nicolas, you _bastardo magnifico_, I can't believe it! You know how much you've earned for us? _Dodici milione_! I heard them myself!"

"_Stabilirsi_, Silvio," the assassin said with an indulgent smile as he slipped into the car. "The deal's not done until Carmine's got the money in his hands."

"Oh _per favore_, it's as good as spent."

"That _impaziente_ attitude is what's keeping you in this lousy chauffeur's job, _amico._"

"I like it here, there's less of a chance I'll get shot. You, though, I bet you're getting promoted."

"Yeah, as if. I'd be _inutile_ anywhere else, and Papa knows it. But a raise would be nice."

"_Basta_, you're getting a bigger check today than most of us make in a lifetime!"

"_Basta_ yourself," Nick growled, tiring of the discussion. "I don't want to think about it until I'm back home tonight."

"_Va bene_, _va bene_," Silvio conceded, turning right on red. "What's in the bag?"

"Nothing special," the assassin said lightly, nudging the brown paper with his foot. "Some wine, and the wife sent me with _crostoli_ to share after the meeting. Want one?"

"Eh, I don't want to get _briciole_ all over the car," his comrade declined. "At lunch, though, for sure."

He then fell silent, much to Nick's relief. Any other day he'd have enjoyed the conversation, or at least not hated it. Today he had to fake everything he did, and even when he wasn't acting it took a lot of effort to keep up with Silvio in a boisterous mood.

For the rest of the ride he stared pensively out the window, watching the familiar scenery pass in a blur. Focusing on an imaginary round of poker kept him cool for a while, but he had to switch to chess when the cards suddenly rearranged themselves into Ellis' game of solitaire. It sent a pulse of sick heat through the hard knot in his stomach.

They arrived at 11:52am. The Texan's sleek black car was still sitting pretty in the parking lot, but a dark green '72 Oldsmobile occupied a place of honor close to the house. Silvio's good cheer drained from his face at the sight of it.

"Better you than me," he whispered, cutting the engine. "There's nothing they could pay that would convince me to spend an hour with _him._"

"Three million not enough?" Nick quipped, all instincts screaming that the Sicilian had the right of it.

"Not even close."

_Il capo_ was the kind of person who'd rather ruin your life than kill you. This did not mean he _wouldn't_ kill you, just that he'd prefer to draw it out over a long, long time. He ruled the Family with an iron fist and silken gloves, as was necessary for such an organization, but rarely mingled with common soldiers. He'd be there for the initiations, watching with a face like stone, but other than that only interacted directly with the _consigliere _and _caporegimes_. It was safer that way, and made those rare occasions on which he did appear personally much more significant.

Nick hefted his bag and approached the house, Silvio trailing a few paces behind. Both of them wore strained poker faces as the hitman raised his hand to knock, strained enough that when the door instantly opened they blinked in surprise.

Carmine looked nothing short of terrifying. His usually jovial smile was condensed into a dangerous smirk, the very one his adopted son wore so often. The slate-grey eyes above glittered with suppressed excitement, a vicious and hungry light that offered a glimpse into how he'd managed to get ahead in this bloody business. He said nothing, and skipped his customary warm welcome to merely step aside for them to enter. When the boss was around, _everyone_ was on his best behavior.

The tension inside was so thick you probably _couldn't_ cut it with a knife. Nick handed Donatta the wine and dessert he'd brought, and winced at the crinkling of paper that nearly echoed down the hall.

"_Vuoi che ti buttare via tutto_?" the younger man murmured. He reached for the bag, but stopped when the assassin shook his head.

"_No, grazie_," he whispered back. Donatta swallowed nervously and ducked his head like he would for Carmine, a show of deference that jolted Nick's heart unpleasantly.

"_Ai_, _ragazzino_, cut that shit out," he said quietly. "You know me. I'm an assassin, not your _commandante_."

The younger man just grimaced, and retreated to the kitchen with a worried look.

A frown touched Nick's face before he hid it behind an ice-cold mask. He steeled himself to follow Carmine, and entered the library a different man – impassive, professional, casually cruel with a lust for blood. His old self.

When had this life become "old?"

"_Don Patriarca_, may I present Nicolas Crisci."

"_E 'un onore, signore_," Nick murmured when Carmine gave the introduction.

_Il capo_ and his personal guards occupied a place by the huge bay window, just to the side so as not to present a target. The man was in his late fifties but built like a middleweight boxer, and had black hair that went silver around his temples. An unpleasant-looking scar ran down from his left ear and disappeared under his cerulean dress shirt. Over the silk garment he wore a pure white suit and warm gold tie that complemented his eyes. They were jet black with fascinating flecks of yellow, the kind of eyes that could capture your attention and never let it go. Nick purposefully avoided looking straight at them.

His existence seemed to be of only mild importance to the boss, who looked him over without responding in words. Carmine beckoned, and one of Nick's peers led a distinctly uncomfortable Mr. Graham over to their corner. The Texan's weathered face and pale eyes were drawn into an angry expression, one the hitman knew was a defense to avoid showing fear. He fidgeted impatiently with an unlit cigar, clearly wanting to speak but understanding the ritual involved in this meeting. The _caporegime_ acted as mediator, indicating that Nick should begin his presentation.

"Ellis Robert Deveaux, age twenty-one, born in Savannah, Georgia," he recited in monotone, and withdrew the cell phone from his jacket. "Died by fire on September the 23rd in Boston, Massachusetts. I'm sorry to say I wasn't able to film it, but you'll find that I took several photos instead."

He handed over the little gadget, not reacting to the annoyed twist of Graham's mouth. There was one other thing that would hopefully make up for the breach of contract.

"Please accept this as a token of apology," he continued smoothly, reaching into the brown paper bag he still carried. "I believe you mentioned that the target always wore a blue-and-white hat?"

Taking the blood to stain it had been far easier than actually prying it from the poor kid's clutching hands. Parting with that cap had been torture for him, but with much agonizing and many tears he had eventually given it up. Now Nick presented it to the client with a pleased little smirk, noticing as he did so that the offering seemed to have made up for shortcomings in other areas.

"Well, I'll be damned," Graham breathed, examining the bloody headwear before flipping open the phone. The assassin nearly held his breath, hoping against hope that his sloppy reprogramming would pass muster. That was the biggest danger – if someone noticed that the pictures had been taken on two separate days, he was done for. So he'd messed with the stupid thing until he could rewrite the information, and now prayed to the Virgin that he hadn't screwed it up.

Nick watched the Texan closely as he took in the photographic evidence. With each image a little more cruel satisfaction gathered at the corners of his eyes, until with a shark-like grin and sharp _snap_ he closed the phone.

"Bring it, Sam."

At a nod from _il capo_ Graham's lackey scurried outside, followed closely by three of Carmine's men. They were visible through the window as they popped the trunk on the sleek black sedan and fished out five bulging duffel bags. The unladen man locked up the car and opened the door for the others, who staggered back into the library with their arms full.

"One of these is for Mr. Crisci here. Three million, for getting the job done right. The rest, sir, is yours," the oil baron said, tipping his Stetson at _Don Patriarca_.

"We appreciate your business," the kingpin replied. His voice was deep, accented, and raspy from old injuries. None of the proceedings seemed to have had the slightest effect on his emotionless face.

"Won't you join us for lunch?" Carmine smiled politely, though it was not a request; younger soldiers would check the payment for tricks while the higher-ups ate. "It's a long way back home, is it not?"

"That'd be mighty kind," Graham said with a barely perceptible sigh. Apparently this job had been weighing heavily on him, and now the deed was done he was starting to relax.

Nick pasted a congenial curve onto his lips and followed his superiors to the dining room.


	14. Commander

Nick was given a place of honor at _il capo_'s left hand while the Texan sat on his right. The _caporegimes_ in attendance were seated according to a strict code of ettiquite that the assassin didn't give a damn about, but he identified some of them by division. Carmine handled enforcement, of course; Big Joe Bianco ran an insider trading scheme; Raymond DeNunzio was in the arms business; and Frank Iannelli had his hands in politics. There were also a few more faces that he didn't recognize. They muttered to each other as the table was set and joined in the saying of Grace, but fell silent as the boss rose to speak.

"We are here to welcome our newest associate, George Graham," he growled. "His generosity has provided _cosa nostra_ with a significant advantage, and he has expressed interest in continuing a mutually beneficial business arrangement. Rich times are ahead, _amici_ – _evviva_!"

_"Evviva!"_ toasted the assembled guests as the oil baron rose and saluted humbly. Under his layers of false pretense, Nick began to panic.

"We have the skill of one of our brothers to thank for this happy development," _Don Patriarca_ continued when the Texan sat back down. "Though he works in the dark, our _assissino_ has brought about a new era of glory for this Family. Nicolas Crisci, you are awarded the rank of _commandant_e as recognition of your service. _B__uon lavoro_."

Reality went a bit fuzzy as Nick rose to accept his applause. Next to him, Carmine lost his mask of restraint and positively beamed, proud as a father could be. The other senior officers cheered, and _il capo_ himself met the assassin's eyes as he raised his glass. A tiny smirk glittered in his gold-flecked gaze.

Nick's body switched to autopilot. He smiled, drank, ate the mozzerella and herb-roasted peppers that were passed around the table and felt like he was going to vomit. People talked around him, discussed the new opportunities for profit that oil presented and congratulated him on his promotion. He joked and laughed and responded the way they expected him to, but inside he was screaming for escape. It had to be a dream, or a nightmare, and he'd wake up in the middle of the night with Alessandra holding him close. It just had to be...

Somehow he made it through the meal without flubbing his performance. By the time the dishes were cleared and the last of his donated _crostoli_ had been reduced to crumbs it was midafternoon, and he longed to be free of the stifling old house. Unfortunately that wasn't how it worked, and he had to follow the _superiori_ into an impeccably decorated lounge. To his relief the older men passed around a box of cigars, the smoke of which he inhaled greedily.

"Congratulations, my boy," Carmine muttered, clapping him on the back with a grin. "You deserve a little recognition, eh? You know, Graham _doubled_ the fee when he heard how fast you'd made the hit!"

"I'm honored, Papa, but I don't want recognition," Nick whispered back. "High-profile is not helpful for someone like me! And you don't expect me to go ordering around a team of my own, do you?"

"No, no, no, of course not," his father chuckled, and one of the many knots in Nick's stomach loosened somewhat. "I'd never saddle you with a _tonnellaggio_ like that. You know how it goes, it's just ceremonial. When everyone settles down you'll go right back to work, I promise."

Nick took a deep pull of his cigar, feeling a little calmer now. His life hadn't been turned _entirely_ upside-down – just one hundred and seventy degrees.

"Thank you, _signore_," he sighed out with the smoke. "When you see him, could you tell Donatta not to take it so seriously? The kid thinks I'm one of you now."

"'Kid,' Nicolas? He's twenty-seven."

Nick shot Carmine a disgruntled look and the older man broke into another wide smile.

"You might not have an assigned _plotone_, but the _soldati_ will follow your orders now. Try not to run them ragged."

"Great. Just... Fan-fuckin'-tastic," the assassin growled to himself as his father wandered off to socialize. He bet all his old buddies would be acting like Donatta – they weren't his peers anymore. Formality or no, he was a senior officer now.

He was going to clock Silvio _such_ a hard one for being right.

Nick lived through the next few hours without experiencing them. With the show over, _il capo_ wasn't interested in him anymore; instead the white-suited man consulted with Graham and his _caporegimes_, setting up the framework for a new partnership. The hitman felt somewhat out of place amongst them, so when he tired of his cigar he left to find people he'd be more comfortable with.

The basement of the Villa looked like a saloon. There were pool tables and poker tables and dartboards, sexy pinup posters on the walls and a thick haze of smoke in the air. He slunk downstairs unnoticed, poured himself some scotch, and scanned the room for his friends. Though he knew most of the men lounging around down here, he only _liked_ a handful. It was those few he hoped wouldn't start to act weird when he was around.

Alan Ferarro was bent over some billiards with a cue drawn back to strike. He squinted through his thick glasses to judge the shot and jabbed forward firmly, but his target didn't sink. Francesco Lapazzi hissed in sympathy and moved to take his own turn, walking around the table to choose an angle. Both of them were about Nick's age, and they'd been inducted together nearly twenty years ago. At the time, they were the closest thing the assassin had to friends; these days they'd sometimes share a drink, when work and family didn't get in the way. Alan was an expert at fudging accounts, so he was usually chained to his desk. Francesco was a pretty face with a photographic memory, constantly off at one official function or another to gather information and grease palms. They didn't get to hang out all together very much, so with his first genuine smile of the day Nick crossed the room to join them.

"_B__envenuto,__ signore _Crisci!" Alan greeted him with an overexaggerated salute and a smile. Francesco looked up from the table and snapped to attention, holding the cue at his shoulder like a rifle and jerking his chin so high he nearly stared at the ceiling.

"_Ai, cazzo, __smettere di farlo_," Nick growled affectionately, punching them both in the shoulder. "I guess you heard?"

"_Si_, this morning," the spy said, returning to his examination of the game. The accountant rubbed his stinging arm with a lopsided grin.

"Glad to escape? We've been hiding down here all day."

"_Madre Maria_, I wish I could have stayed at home," Nick sighed, grateful that these men, at least, weren't acting like idiots – not any more than usual, at least. He took a sip of his drink and watched Francesco pocket number five.

"How's life?" he asked lazily, wanting the others to talk so he wouldn't have to.

"Lydia turned six last week," Alan announced proudly. "She's in second grade now!"

"You must be the only one in this city he hadn't told yet," Francesco quipped, and missed his next shot. "Bragging nonstop, I swear..."

"And you don't talk about your kids at all, so it balances out," the accountant retorted.

"I work in the open. Someone could use my children to get to me," the spy said seriously. "Why don't you bother Crisci about it?"

"For God's sake, Francesco, I only got married in July..."

"You're thirty-four, man, there's a lot of time to make up!" Alan teased. Nick glared at him.

"_C__hiudere_," he snapped. "I don't give a damn what's expected. I'd be a terrible father, and kids are fucking annoying."

"He's got you there, _amico_," Francesco said, swapping with the accountant again. "Honestly, can you see our _assissino_ changing a diaper?"

"Alessandra wouldn't stand for it, either," Nick grumbled around his glass. "And she's the one who gets the final say."

The other men shared an amused glance before the spy sank the eight-ball. Alan shook his head and offered his cue to Nick with chagrin.

"I can't win today. You up for a game?"

"Always," the assassin said, cheering up a bit. All this talk of children had been making him profoundly uncomfortable.

And for some goddamn reason he really wanted to go home and play Halo now.


	15. Wreck

Climbing those eight flights of stairs had never felt so impossible. He dragged himself up to the apartment with the last scrap of willpower he had left, cursing the director who'd decided to do a lighting check that night. Without Alessandra waiting for him he could barely muster the energy to put one foot in front of the other. He'd been holding himself together for hours, fragile bands of determination wrapped tight around a dangerously unstable core, and now those last restraints were snapping like old rubber. Only the threat of arrest kept him from having a violent hissy fit right there on the landing.

Nick slumped against the door as he fumbled for his keys, old wood scratchy against his forehead. Scallop risotto churned in his stomach and he closed his eyes, swallowing hard to keep the bile from rising in his throat; but the harder he tried to concentrate, the more difficult it was. He'd thought that Graham would disappear back to the ranch once he'd got his vengeance. Now images of the Texan haunted him, the prospect of a future plagued by his traitorous secret. He couldn't harbor a fugitive forever.

That fugitive must have heard him scrabbling about, because the door suddenly opened before Nick could pick the right key. He half-slid and half-fell forward, scraping a shallow gash above his left eye before his reflexes kicked in.

"Woah! Hey, Nick, take it easy," Ellis cried as the Eagle's cool muzzle jabbed under his chin. He'd caught the older man mid-stumble, but froze when the gun was drawn and stood awkwardly, supporting the off-balance assassin in his muscular arms.

"Shit, kid, you scared me," the hitman rasped, voice on the edge of cracking. He slowly put away the pistol and found his feet, adrenaline rush disappearing just as fast as it had come. The mechanic kept a hold of him until he staggered inside and pulled the door shut behind him.

"Uh... Yew drunk or somethin'? Ya don' look so good."

"Look who's talking," Nick retorted, collapsing on the couch. Ellis sat timidly beside him.

"Yer kinda bleedin', there..." he muttered, reaching for a tissue. It turned out to be the last one in the box; the trash can was overflowing with the crumpled remains of its brethren. Cautiously he reached out to dab at the cut on Nick's forehead. It must have stung, because the assassin winced.

"Leave it," he growled.

Ellis obediently wadded up the tissue and threw it away. His tear-scoured eyes had dark circles under them and he'd run his hand through his hair enough to make it all stand on end. He did it again, swiping strong fingers through those thick curls in lieu of adjusting his hat. The motion made Nick's own eyes prickle uncomfortably.

"If ya don't mind me askin', th' fuck happened ta yew?"

"Long. Ass. Day."

"No kiddin'. What, my hat not convince 'em?"

"Ellis, if they'd called me out I'd never have come home again," the hitman sighed wryly. "That part went fine. Goddamn perfectly, in fact. I'm a rich man."

"So..." the Georgian seemed mildly confused.

"So we've got new problems," Nick said, cradling his face in his hands. "_Cazzo_ cowboy's sticking around, setting up some kind of deal with the Family. We direct business towards his company's interests, he gives us a cut of the profits."

Ellis blinked a few times before his face fell even further.

"I can't leave," he said in flat understanding. "They're gonna remember me..."

"_Ce l'hai_," Nick spat in frustration. "I like you, sport, but I don't want to live with you forever. I've gotta think of something else."

The mechanic leaned back against the cushions with a faraway look in his eyes and slid his hand across his hair again.

"Oh, and of course they went and promoted me for killing you, so I'm gonna be the center of attention until somebody else earns us twelve million bucks," continued the increasingly agitated assassin. He was home now, he was safe, and the violence he'd been suppressing all day was bursting from his seams.

"When the _fuck_ did this get so goddamn complicated?" he shouted, practically clawing at his eyes. "Why can't they just leave me alone, let me do my job in peace? One goddamn day of being _commandante_ and I'm already sick of it!"

It took a lot to keep from shooting something. He gripped his face hard, heedless of the blood that trickled down his fingers. Graham or the promotion, one or the other he could have dealt with; but both? He'd be in the spotlight for a while, at least a week, and by the time he had his life back the Texan would be settled in. It would be impossible to get Ellis out of town unnoticed.

"I'll go," the Georgian muttered. "I'll get outta here, t'night, an' keep goin' north. Ya shouldn't hafta deal with this 'cuz a' me."

"Like hell you'll go," Nick growled back. "You know how many eyes we have in this city? Even with everyone thinking you're dead, it won't take them long to catch on. Getting you out would take, I don't know, fuckin' plastic surgery or something."

"But... I like my face..."

"So do I, kid," the hitman whispered to himself, then continued to vent his spleen in a voice cold as the grave. "Short of that, you're stuck. _We're_ stuck. Only three of my friends aren't treating me like a goddamn _caporegime_. Weaseling out of social _sciocchezza_is gonna be a lot harder now and that _maledetto_ bastard _sarà a guardarmi_all the time... _Voglio torcergli il collo e sparare a lui e vederlo soffrire__ e..._"

He descended into vicious Italian that began to lose coherency as his shoulders started to shake. He hated himself for breaking down but couldn't stop it from coming, and gave in with quiet sobs that grew into unrestrained howls when Ellis draped a tentative arm around him. Tears mingled with blood from his cut, a salty mixture that slid down his face and fell into his mouth unchecked.

"That's right, let it out," the younger man muttered softly. "'S awright, now, Ellis gotcha. Yer okay..."

Nick let all the week's pent-up stress and rage leave his body in a wild rush. He couldn't remember crying like this since his first night on the street, so long ago; but back then there hadn't been anyone to comfort him with strong arms and rough, awkward words. He wished it were Alessandra's shoulder that his head fell limply against, and Alessandra's voice murmuring sweetly in his ear; but tonight it was Ellis who caught him, Ellis who held his trembling body and Ellis' shirt that became stained with his blood.

The mechanic shushed him gently until the flow of tears finally ebbed. At first Nick didn't – couldn't – move, simply lay slumped with his eyes shut and felt like an empty shell of himself. When he'd taken a few deep breaths he sat up on his own and reached into his pocket for a handkerchief. Ellis shifted, stretching limbs that had fallen asleep.

"Do ya wanna-"

"Give me a minute," Nick rasped, and blew his nose. Ellis fell awkwardly silent.

Clarity returned as the thin mucus drained from his head. The hitman daubed the blood from his face, composed himself, and began to analyze the situation in a logical way. A cold way. The way of an assassin.

And suddenly a plan clicked into place.

"All right," he said with a dangerous smile. "What were you going to say?"

"Wonderin' if maybe ya wanna play somethin'," his young companion said nervously with a wave at the XBox. "Or I c'n gitcha a drink. I could sure use one."

"Drinks sound good," Nick conceded, feeling more and more serene as his path became clear. He tossed aside his moment of weakness like a used tissue, but a sense of cosmic irony stuck with him. "How about a movie?"

Ellis cocked his head, probably confused by his landlord's mood swing, but took the hint to forget what had happened. He sighed, and stood to get the liquor with a slight wince.

"I been watchin' most a' whatcha got th' last couple days," he said, swiping his hand through his hair. "I ain't seen _Nine_ or _Sin City_ or any a' those rom-coms..."

"Aly's guilty pleasure," Nick said with an apologetic face. "Nobody's perfect."

Ellis thought while getting out the glasses.

"Y'know, I ain't in th' mood fer nothin' new. Scotch?"

"Yeah, thanks..."

"So how 'bout _Zombieland_? Yew get yer movie, I get my zombie-killin'. An' it's a happy endin'."

Nick considered for a moment. He'd hoped for something with a bit more substance, but the comedy's morbid humor seemed strangely appropriate. He heaved himself off the couch to get the DVD from the shelf.

"All right," he said, powering on the TV while he was next to it. He slipped the disk into the player and turned around, heading for his room. "Don't start without me."

"Where ya goin'?" Ellis asked, his offered drink ignored.

"I'll be right back."

Nick stripped out of his best suit and hung it neatly in the closet, making a mental note to have it dry-cleaned ASAP. In its place he pulled on a pair of pajama pants, grimacing at the clotting scab he saw in the mirror. After quickly freshening up he rejoined Ellis on the couch, accepted his libation and hit play.

When Alessandra came home in the wee hours of the morning, the sight that greeted her made all the day's hassle disappear. She smiled tiredly, turned off the TV, and cleaned up the glasses while the men in her life slumbered peacefully, sprawled together on the couch with a blanket tangled awkwardly between them.


	16. Instigator

Nick woke up with a wicked backache and a purpose. He was cramped into a funny position on the sofa, with a blanket draped over him and the smell of frying meat hovering in the air. It took a while for him to get in touch with reality, but when the assassin rubbed his face and felt the fresh scab he remembered why the hell he he'd slept on the couch.

Groaning faintly, he got up and stretched. Ellis was in the kitchen making breakfast, and Nick snagged a strip of fresh bacon with a short grunt of acknowledgment on his way to the shower. The mechanic responded with a concerned smile and raked a hand through his damp curls – apparently he'd wanted to get clean this morning, too.

The scalding downpour on his body made Nick feel alive. He stayed there until the steam was so thick he couldn't see the taps, letting his skin turn bright red as the kinks faded out of his muscles. Once the whole building was devoid of hot water he actually started to wash, and let the cold wake him up some more before getting out. He dried off, wrapped a towel around his waist and returned to the kitchen with a grin that would make anyone sensible run for their lives.

"Took yer own sweet time, huh?" Ellis called from the table. "Coffee's prob'ly cold."

"Had to get your germs off me somehow," the hitman quipped, putting a mug in the microwave. As the appliance hummed he turned to lean against the counter, arms crossed authoritatively. "All right, champ, listen up. I've got a quick errand to run. While I'm gone I want you to go online, pick out a whole mess of games for the XBox and make a list of 'em. Anything else, too, stuff you've always wanted, write it all out and where you can buy it. I'll go shopping this afternoon."

The mechanic stared at him like he'd turned into a purple elephant. Nick laughed.

"I'm rich, Ellis! I can afford to get you something fun to do while you're cooped up, so long as I can carry it all on the subway."

The microwave beeped loudly and he retrieved his now-steaming beverage. The first sip was just on the edge of too hot but not quite over it, and he exhaled roughly with appreciation.

"_Ahh..._"

"_Buongiorno, signori_," a sleepy voice drifted from the hall. Alessandra stumbled into the kitchen with her hair all askew and plucked Nick's coffee straight from his hands. He blinked in amusement as she took a long drink, and with a resigned sigh set up the percolator again.

"Let me know when you're awake enough to discuss something important, _dolcezza_," he murmured, and kissed her affectionately on the cheek. She smiled dreamily and buried her nose in her mug.

"Uh, Nick..." Ellis still hadn't wrapped his head around his orders.

"'Uh' nothing, kid. If it makes you feel any better I'll give you a budget of twenty-five thousand dollars. Go nuts."

Since he'd have to wait for coffee now, Nick swiped a few more pieces of lukewarm bacon from the counter and went to get dressed. He felt incredibly chipper this morning even though he hadn't been properly caffeinated yet, and hummed indistinctly as he combed and gelled his hair.

"..._Mm-mm hmm dah dah... will ya live forever, or just all night long_...?"

If he had his way, somebody wouldn't be living very much longer. The thought put him in an extremely good mood.

Back in the kitchen Ellis was washing his dishes while Aly nibbled at some hash browns. The assassin poured himself fresh coffee, lit up a cigarette, and sat at the table to strip down his gun. He quickly established a rhythm: sip, smoke, tinker, repeat.

"So," he said, propping his cigarette on the ashtray. "Ready to talk business?"

"I suppose so," Alessandra yawned, watching her husband's nimble fingers manipulate the little pieces of metal. "Yesterday went well, I'm guessing?"

"A few surprise complications that I'll be dealing with soon, but the trick went off without a hitch. _Grazie_." He gave her a warm smile over the rim of his mug, which she returned with satisfaction. "The most immediate effect is that I've got three million dollars waiting for me in the bank. How do you feel about buying a real house?"

A noisy clatter announced that Ellis had overheard. Aly merely closed her eyes happily.

"The one in Somerville?"

"You got it," Nick confirmed softly, head humming with love at the sight of her face. "I think it's time, don't you?"

Alessandra glanced sidelong at Ellis, who hadn't yet resumed his chore because he was listening too hard. The water ran unnoticed, over his hands and into the sink with a steady hiss.

"I suppose our _compagno di stanza_ can't sleep on the couch forever," she commented gently. "Is that place still on the market?"

"I had a hold put on it when we got married," Nick admitted slyly. "It's not in the listings, but one word to Carmine and we could move in tomorrow."

"_Tu sei un uomo cattivo_," Aly muttered with a stern look – but she was smiling, and her eyes quickly lost any semblance of severity. She drained her coffee, pushed away from the table with a soft sigh and gave her husband a deep kiss before returning to the bedroom to change. A happy spring danced in her step.

The assassin savored the moment, then reassembled his pistol with swift, purposeful movements. Ellis finally seemed to come to his senses and turned off the taps with a faint squeak, facing his guardian with an apprehensive mix of glee and gratitude shining from his eyes.

"So, uh..."

"You'll have your own room, Junior," Nick announced with a wink as the magazine snapped into place. "Have fun this morning, and don't worry about a thing. Life's gonna regret pissing me off."

He nearly skipped down the stairs and out into the street, half-singing to himself as he joined the throng of commuters in the subway. All the rage and helplessness of the night before was gone and forgotten now. Today he had a secret, a plan that would let him be what he was born to be: a hunter. The thrill of it lay coiled in his stomach like a snake, ready to flood his veins with sweet poison at a moment's notice. He felt excitingly light-headed thinking about the risk and challenge of what he was going to do, and it made his eyes glitter dangerously enough that other passengers went out of their way to keep him at arm's length.

When he got to the bank he adopted his default face, cool and confident with a smirk to send shivers through anyone talking to him. Even though it was a Saturday a nod to the teller got him access to the back rooms, where Alan and his assistant Michael sat surrounded by paperwork. At his entrance the bespectacled accountant glanced up, grinned, and briefly raised a finger from his keyboard.

"_Uno minuti, per favore._"

"Take your time," Nick replied, and gave the shy younger man a friendly nod. Alan tapped away at his computer for a moment, then emphatically hit enter and sat back in his chair.

"All right, Nicolas, you're set for the first part," he said briskly, reaching down to open a drawer. "One million is in four separate checking accounts, and all the paperwork is here, but the rest is still cash in the vault. I wanted to talk to you before making any investments."

"Fantastic," the assassin said, accepting the thick trapper-keeper his friend handed him. "Keep half a million back in cash. I trust that your masterful skills will make the rest grow."

"You flatter me," Alan drawled with an amused smile. "Consider it done."

"Great. You got any time after church tomorrow? I figure I owe you and Francesco a lunch."

"I'll clear my schedule," the accountant quipped, grinning broadly again.

Nick gave a lazy salute and strolled away, out of the bank and down to the T to return home. When he got there Ellis and Aly were sitting at the table, heads together over her laptop. A sheet of her favorite legal paper lay next to the mechanic's elbow, half-covered in large, deliberate writing.

"...thought he'd won th' lottery, right? So he's on his dad's computer buyin' ev'ry damn thing he sees, an' fer some reason th' credit card didn't say when it got over-drawn, or whatever? Oho, man, nearly got his damn _house_ repossessed!"

"Keith again?" the assassin asked wryly, slipping out of his shoes. His young charge looked up in greeting.

"How'dja guess?"

"Call it a hunch," Nick drawled sarcastically, and dropped the financial documents on the table with an impressive _smack_. "What've you got?"

He moved behind them to look at the screen, placing an affectionate hand on Aly's shoulder. She reached up to cover it with her own and squeezed gently.

"Not much so far," she told him. "The way he's deliberating, you'd think someone's life was at stake."

"Hey, it ain't every day that kinda money falls outta th' sky," Ellis retorted, squinting at a webpage before scribbling something down. "I maybe don't think ev'rythin' through like I should, but I've been scrapin' by long enough ta be careful a' how I spend. Like, fer starters, I wanna put some in th' bank."

"That can be arranged," Nick said with approval – less to buy, less to carry. "It'll have to wait until it's safe to let you out again, though, so for now I'll keep it in one of my accounts. You'll get the interest, too, when we're ready."

The southerner looked up at him with grateful blue eyes that set warmth glowing in his chest. To avoid being the target of one of Ellis' bone-crushing hugs, he plucked the paper off the table and began perusing a short wishlist: three Assassin's Creed games; the newest Halo; sixty-five piece deluxe Craftsman tool set with reinforced case; two pairs of large canvas coveralls in navy blue; one pair of steel-toed oil- and water-proof boots; a small studio-size set of pots, pans, dishes and cutlery; and a new i850 "rugged" cell phone with pay-as-you-go service.

"Awfully specific."

"Like I said, I'm bein' careful," the Georgian said, turning back to the laptop to open a text file. "I copied down th' websites here, where things're on sale. Even countin' how much it'll cost ta ship overnight, it'll be cheaper'n goin' downtown. An' ya won't hafta look suspicious caryin' shit around, neither."

"Your _protetto_ learns quickly," Alessandra said with a wicked smile. "A shame he's not _uno dei sangue_. With a little training..."

Ellis appeared utterly nonplussed by the idea.

"No offense or nothin', but _hell _no," he said firmly. "I jus' wanna get my life back."

"And you will," Nick replied reassuringly, then caught sight of one last item written very small at the bottom of the page: white-gold Celtic knot pendant with blue topaz inlay. "What's this?"

The mechanic took back the pad of paper and blushed a little.

"Fer Kaylee," he muttered. "When I find her again."

Aly put a comforting arm around his shoulders and smiled.

"I'm sure she'll love it," she said. Nick felt a twinge of sympathy for the separated couple, but had no intention of getting involved on that score. He cleared his throat and took one of his new debit cards out of the trapper.

"Here. Get your games," he told his boarder, handing over the paperwork. "Send everything else to the new address, but not overnight. I'm going to make the call."

Alessandra looked up at her husband with the kind of smile that had made him fall for her in the first place. He returned it broadly, then retreated to the bedroom and pulled out his cell phone.

As soon as he flipped it open, his joyful grin disappeared. He dialed with slow, deliberate movements, and almost immediately was connected to a cheerful sales rep. His Boston accent was so thick as to be nearly comical.

"South Side Phahmacy, how can I help you t'day?"

"I have a prescription from Doctor Bol," Nick said casually. The pharmacist paused, then confirmed the secret phrase.

"Wazzat for ya' broken ah'm?"

"Yes, the shattered radius."

"One moment, please."

The assassin waited patiently for his transfer. If he remembered the code properly, he'd get high priority; the worse the fracture, the more important the call. Soon the cheesy hold music got cut off by a harsh, quiet voice.

"Yeah?"

"Tell Melnikov that Carmine's son has reconsidered," Nick said flatly. "I'll be there in two hours."

"You can't just-"

"I can and I will," the hitman interrupted coldly. "_Odinokiĭ volk voet_," he said, Russian syllables awkward on his tongue but heavy with meaning nonetheless. It shut the other man up immediately.

"_Konechno_," he growled. "Two hours."

Nick hung up and released a deep breath, heart racing with thrilled anticipation.

There was no going back now.


	17. Double Agent

Getting to Jamaica Plain without Silvio took almost the whole two hours he'd allowed himself, because traffic was awful. The bus ride was a frustratingly anticlimactic beginning to his endeavor, rather like the awkward pause to put on a condom before having sex for the first time. He was nearly as eager to get on with this as he'd been back in high school, too.

Nick's high spirits recovered quickly when his shoes hit concrete, and regainined lost momentum with every step. He took a second to orient himself, since the bus stop was an unfamiliar starting point, but soon took off in the most direct tail-losing meander possible.

Ice and flaming adrenaline pumped through his body as he walked. It was the kind of high he hadn't felt since his early days as an assassin, when the taste of blood was still fresh on his tongue. That sanguine edge had faded some over the years as it became more of a job – a job he loved, of course, but still. Today, though, the fire was back, and so hot that for once the drug-laced air of Melnikov's headquarters didn't faze him a bit.

He was divested of his Deagle by a grouchy guard and hastily ushered inside. The stodgy office was just as gloomy as ever, although this time there were fewer lackeys standing around. Dmitri Melnikov heaved himself up from behind his desk as Nick entered, hawkish eyes glittering in his fleshy face. The artificial smile he wore betrayed nothing.

"So. The _italyanskii_ is not as loyal as he claims, mm?"

Inside, Nick wanted to spit at the obese man's feet. Outside he was cool as a Siberian winter, letting just a touch of fake unease flicker across his face for the Russian to see.

"Who do you want dead, Melnikov?"

The drug lord thought for a moment, then tilted his head to a precise angle. All but one of his bodyguards snapped to attention and briskly left the room. Only his most favored _soldat_ remained, a huge fellow who'd look more at home in Arctic fatigues than the dress shirt and slacks he currently wore. The lines and creases in the fabric betrayed at least three guns and two knives stashed about his person, on top of the custom-modified Soviet rifle he carried openly. Nick resolved not to get on his bad side.

"What do you want that your father cannot give you?" the drug lord retaliated, casually turning to inspect a bookcase. He smirked, and thoughtfully ran one pudgy finger down the spine of a thick medical tome. "Ordinarily I try not to ask too many questions, but... You're _spetsialnyi_, aren't you? Can't be too careful when your Family has their eyes on us all."

"We've both got to watch our backs," Nick agreed, shifting on his feet a carefully calculated amount. "You need to kill someone, I need _farmaci_, and neither of us wants Carmine to find out. So let's keep it simple, _dai_? It'll be our little secret... and Ivan over there, of course." He nodded congenially at the bodyguard, who evidenced all the emotional response of a brick wall. The old Russian chuckled.

"Of course."

He selected a hefty book and returned to his desk. Wood creaked and leather sighed as he sat down and settled in, straightening his sharkskin-grey suit with a few quick tugs. When he opened the volume Nick could see it was an inventory of sorts, full of notes and tables and long scientific words. The drug lord flipped through it nonchalantly.

"And what _narkotikov_ of mine are you so desperate to to hide from Mr. Napoline?"

"The most powerful _oppiacei_ you've got."

The statement gave Melnikov significant pause. For a moment he held his hand delicately over the book, not quite touching the page. He did not look up.

"I do not hand out _spat'd'yavola_ to just anyone," the silver-haired dealer said quietly, resuming a more deliberate perusal of his tome. "What do you want it for, Crisci? Killing off the clock?"

The assassin found an empty bit of wall to lean against, and theatrically placed a hand to his brow.

"I've just got a wicked headache," he said impishly. Melnikov looked slightly amused.

"_Chush, malchik_," he scolded gently, and stopped to inspect a page. "How much are you needing?"

"Oh, three times the lethal dose ought to do it," Nick said airily, inspecting his nails. He glanced up to see the Soviet staring at him in disbelief, and smirked. "What? You've never had a migraine?"

The drug lord collected himself, and laced his fingers together seriously. The black-haired killer braced for a fight – he knew that look. The time for jokes was over.

"I cannot do this," Melnikov said flatly. "Not blind. That much on the streets, how can I know it won't be traced back to me if I don't know where it's going?"

Nick dropped his timid act, stalked back to the desk and did his best to loom. It was difficult to feel tall with a man twice his size standing three feet away.

"_Stronzate,_ and you know it," he answered coldly. "If you didn't think I'm the best at what I do, you'd never have risked trying to buy me off – and look, here's your chance. I'll take down Vladimir Putin himself if you tell me to, but that's my price."

The Russian gazed steadily at him with eerily pale eyes. Nick moderated his breath with slight effort, but couldn't stop his pulse from quickening. He was nearly giddy with excitement.

After a few seconds that felt like years Melnikov sat back in his chair. Without taking his eyes from his customer he crooked a finger at his bodyguard, who bent attentively to his master's side.

"_Gregori, srazu poluchitmobilnyi telefon_," he muttered. The big soldier relayed the command to somebody out in the hall, and Nick had to work to keep the grin from his face. Instead he crossed his arms impassively, and regarded the older man with a steady gaze of his own.

"So, are we in business?"

"Not quite, mister Crisci," the drug lord replied with a tight, dangerous smile. "I haven't got that much just sitting around. It will take some time to procure."

"How much time?"

"Who can say?" Melnikov shrugged, spreading his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "My suppliers are all on different schedules, I have other customers to please..."

"_Parla chiaramente_," the assassin interrupted. "Tell me how long."

"Six months."

"One."

"_Nevozmozhnoe_!" the older man objected, as Nick had known he would. "It cannot be done. Even if you finish the job tomorrow, four is the fastest I can offer you."

"Two. I'll pick up whatever you've got every week."

"That is still an unreasonable-"

"Do you want my gun or not?" Nick hissed, placing his hands on the desk to lean forward. He pointedly ignored the way the bodyguard's hands tightened around his rifle. "You tried to double-cross the _Patriarca_. You must really want somebody dead if you were willing to risk that, somebody my Family would never hit... Maybe even one of us?"

Melnikov started to look uneasy, and the younger man knew he'd struck gold. He pressed a little harder.

"The way I see it, you've got three choices. Kill me, and deal with my Family when they come looking; let me go empty-handed, so I can bring them down on you anyway; or give me what I need, and your target's as good as dead."

The Russian's plump mouth twisted unpleasantly. Nick felt a slight thrill of victory when those ice-blue eyes blinked, pale gaze hooded by age-spotted lids for a fraction of a second.

"Joseph Patriarca," Melnikov said flatly.

In the hush that followed his statement, the sound of a lackey's arrival was deafening. The minion set a cheap cell phone down on the desk and beat a hasty retreat, wisely not crossing the line of fire between Nick and the drug lord's bodyguard.

The assassin slowly stood straight again, schooling his face into blankness as his heart accelerated in a most uncomfortable way.

"What the hell do you have against _il capo's_ son?" he asked quietly, defensive reflex making his fingers twitch to grab his gun. Melnikov's fleshy face became harder than it had any right to be.

"Nothing you need to worry about, _ubiĭtsa_," he answered coldly. "One hit, one payoff, no more questions. You either leave with this phone and wait for instructions, or you don't leave at all. I'm perfectly capable of handling anyone who tries to find your corpse."

The hulking soldier smoothly brought up his rifle. His hands did not move from the trigger to turn off the safety – the weapon was already cocked.

Nick did not flinch, and kept his glittering emerald eyes fixed on his new employer. Slowly he picked up the phone and slipped it into a pocket.

"_Khorosho_," Melnikov said in a voice barely above a whisper. "You'll get your poison, Crisci. I'll be in touch."

The hitman knew a dismissal when he heard one. He gave a mocking little duck of his head and calmly left the room.


	18. Family

The gears in his head were already whirring as he reclaimed his pistol and left the compound. Planning. Scheming. Recalibrating to adjust for this dangerous new development. He'd accepted the probibility of fratricide before making the call, and was already running through information pertinent to the kill; but something inside him was slowly withering in despair. It was the mother of all sinking feelings, a queasy weight in his stomach that made "foreboding" seem like a good omen.

He ignored it.

Instead of returning to the bus stop, he just kept walking. Walking helped him think, and _porca puttana_did he have a lot to think about. Steel etching flashed in the sun as he lit a cigarette, and he toyed aimlessly with the lighter as he followed the downtown bus route away from Jamaica Plain.

Joseph Patriarca was hardly older than Ellis. Of course he was being groomed for command, but he was nothing at all like his father. He was popular, handsome, convivial. He liked music and drinking and hunting in New Hampshire on the weekends, when he wasn't partying in Chicago or New York or Montreal. Everyone with half a brain loved him – not only was it healthy to be close to the heir to the throne, but he was a lovable guy in his own right.

Nick chewed on a new cigarette and continued to fidget on the way back to the center of town. He wandered into a tiny excuse for a park, a fifty-square-foot patch of dirt sandwiched between a doctor's office and a convoluted intersection of the sort unique to Boston. He spotted a grey stone bench and crossed over to it, russet maple leaves crunching under his shoes. They were so dry that he toyed with the idea of setting them alight, just to watch them crinkle into ashes; but as attractive as the prospect was, he didn't feel like getting arrested for arson today. His flame licked the tip of his cigarette instead, and he closed his eyes as he breathed in the smoke. It was a kind of chemical-assisted meditation, and as the nicotine swirled through his lungs he let his tension ease away.

Two more cigarettes helped get his mind was back where it was supposed to be. From an absolutely dispassionate center he cloaked himself in a familiar shroud of lies, a twisted mirror that would show people only what he wanted them to see. He crushed his last burnt-out butt on the granite next to him and reached lazily for his cell phone.

"_Si_, Nicolas, _cosa posso fare per te_?"

"_Bienvenuti_, Papa," he replied, voice tuned to a smug excitement. "I've decided to buy myself a birthday present, but I need your help."

"Is this what I think it is?" Carmine asked with thrilled anticipation. The sentiment was contagious – an entirely authentic grin gradually spread over Nick's face.

"If you're thinking 27 Bartlett Street, then yes," he answered. "I'll tell Alan to give you the money when I see him tomorrow."

"_Basta_, you'll do no such thing," his father scoffed heartily. "I told you when you were married, it would be my gift to you. When do you want to move in?"

"Papa, are you sure-"

"Of course I'm sure, _sciocco_! I'll get the keys for you on Monday. When should I send over the U-Haul?"

"_Grazie, padre,_" Nick murmured though a soft smile, knowing better than to argue. When Carmine called him "_sciocco,_" the decision had been made. "Can we plan for Wednesday?"

"Done," his father replied warmly, and the assassin could practically feel the accompanying slap on the back. "Congratulations, _gatto selvatico_. Go tell your wife and celebrate, eh?"

"Oh, god, I wish you wouldn't call me that," Nick groaned, sitting forward to rub his forehead in good-natured exasperation. "I'm not sixteen anymore."

The _caporegime_ laughed. "Allow an old man his memories, Nicolas. _Buona giornata_!"

He slowly closed the phone as it burbled the end of the call, and sat happily for a moment before the truth of things crept back into his awareness. The smile melted slowly off his face as he mentally listed all the things he had to do.

Find out everything he could about Joseph Patriarca's movements.

Get into Graham's circle of friends, close enough to know the man better than he knew himself.

Make sure Melnikov held up his end of the deal.

Keep Ellis out of sight until the move was complete.

Actually _move_.

Nick sighed and stood up from the bench, building layer after layer of lies and misdirection around his traitorous, double-crossing core. He meandered to the nearest bus stop and camped out next to a traffic sign, straining to bring his focus from dark plots to the more pleasant tasks ahead. If he could forget his risky position, even temporarily, he might be able to enjoy the milestone of buying a house. Really _owning_ a place, him and Aly, living the American Dream. Carmine was right – today, he should celebrate.

The bus arrived about twenty minutes later, knelt to the pavement and announced its route through speakers that made the already robotic voice sound alien. Nick quickly hopped aboard, tapped his card and claimed a seat before an old woman in a wheelchair took up the whole doorway. The return trip passed quickly without anticipation grating on his nerves, and by the time he disembarked to make his transfer the hitman was calm enough to realize that he was _starving_.

One sandwich and subway ride later he returned home again, bound and determined to have a nice afternoon, dammit. He trudged up the stairs for the second time that day, but submerged his annoyance and pushed open the door with a pleased little smirk.

Ellis was still at the kitchen table, chin propped on his fists, staring at the laptop with a thoughtfully serious frown. Aly, knowing full well how swiftly the Family could operate, was already cleaning and organizing their belongings in preparation to pack them up. At the sound of Nick's entrance she glanced at him with sparkling eyes, but didn't stop pulling DVDs from the shelf.

"Wednesday," the assassin announced as he left his shoes on the mat. "Do we need supplies?"

"Boxes," his wife answered, examining a movie before tossing it into the trash. "And some extra bubble wrap. The big kind."

Nick went to the kitchen, opened the liquor cabinet, and thoughtfully ran a finger down the pure amber curve of a bottle of scotch. "Is that for business, or pleasure?" he asked slyly, an amused twist perking up the corner of his mouth. Behind him, Ellis chuckled.

"Does it matter?" Aly retorted, a smile creeping into her defensive tone.

The sound of it finally broke through the hitman's tightly controlled shell, and his smirk blossomed into a true grin. He pushed aside several colorfully labeled bottles so he could reach the back, and drew out a small, crystal-clear flask of the best _grappa_ available in the States.

"Is there a show tonight?" he called over his shoulder, reaching for three tiny glasses. The stagehand's sigh was audible even from the living room.

"It's Saturday, what do you think?"

"I think we're having an early dinner," Nick said, pouring a tiny amount of the powerful spirit for each of them. "Packing can wait, _tesoro_. _Andiamo a prenderci una bibita_. You too, Ellis."

"Me too what?"

The assassin snorted in amusement, having forgotten that his young Georgian friend didn't speak _italiano_. "Come have a drink, kid. We've finally got something to celebrate." He turned with a glass in each hand, and gently beckoned the southerner over to the kitchen. Aly happily accepted her libation as Ellis curiously examined his, and Nick retrieved the third from the counter.

"How does _scampi_ sound?" he asked before they proposed a toast. His wife grinned and licked her lips, a gesture that made him hungry in more than one way. The mechanic tilted his head a bit.

"Dunno, but if yer makin' it I bet it's good."

"Oh, you have _no idea_," Aly purred. Nick shifted smugly and quietly cleared his throat, drawing his companions' attention to the tumbler in his raised hand.

"_Salute_," he announced with a smile. "In a few days we'll be living like human beings again!"

"_Buon compleanno, amore. Vivere cent'anni_," Alessandra replied, dark eyes twinkling. Ellis went faintly pink across the scarred bridge of his nose.

"Uh... Here's ta yew, I guess," he muttered. "I still can't thank ya enough. Either of ya."

"It's been our pleasure, _capretto_," the artist said warmly, giving him a hug around the shoulders.

Nick felt a warmth begin to grow in his chest. It pushed back the darkness clinging to his gut, and downing the _grappa_ only made it glow brighter.

He put aside his empty glass, laughing at Ellis' reaction to the strong liquor, and began to prepare for dinner with a happy serenity pervading his mind. All the murder and treachery weighing on him could damn well wait until tomorrow. For this one afternoon, at least, he was going to let himself relax and enjoy the company of his family.


	19. Lunch

At church the next day, singing was entirely beyond him. He knelt in his pew, far to the back, and hoarsely whispered the words everyone else let soar. With his eyes tightly shut and head bowed onto his clasped hands, he begged the Virgin for Her guidance and protection. Not for his own sake, or even Aly's – she was Family, too, and could take care of herself – but for Ellis. If anybody deserved little divine intervention, it was him. His face flickered behind Nick's eyes, expression despairing yet selflessly accepting of the shit life threw at him. The assassin prayed right through communion, asking God for both the strength to finish what he'd started and the luck to get away with it. Eventually he ran out of words, leaving his twisted black heart to ache desperately under his pious facade.

When the priest spoke the final benediction Nick finally rose from his knees. He felt a little light-headed, but forced a smile and went to join his brothers in the vestibule. Alan and Francesco circulated a bit, leaving Nick to accept the greetings and banalities of people he didn't care about. He let autopilot handle them while he kept half an eye on his friends, hiding the impatience that prickled at his neck. Every time someone uttered the word "_commandante_," in tones both hearty and respectful, he wanted to start breaking bones... and a _lot_ of people were calling him that. He was a star now, and nearly everybody would want to get into his good graces. Nick chuckled darkly to himself – the poor fuckers didn't seem to understand that he didn't _have_ any good graces. Not for them.

One nice thing about the crowd was the gossip. The hitman's keen ears picked out snatches of conversation that were relevant to his current interests, and filed them away for later. Rumor had it that Joseph Patriarca was planning some kind of party... Graham was setting up a smear campaign to discredit his competition in the region... _Il capo_ had his eye on a Family-run chain of oil distributors... Carmine was negotiating a new contract...

"_Saluti, signore_!"

Nick blinked into Silvio's broadly grinning face, and narrowed his eyes dangerously.

"If you don't cut that out I'll make you eat your own tongue," he growled, only half-playing at being angry. "Shouldn't you be driving someone to Roxbury or something?"

"Ooh, grouchy today," the Sicilian quipped wryly, not cowed in the slightest. "Franny says you're doing lunch with him and Alan, but would you want to get in a little practice later?"

"Don't call him that to his face," Nick warned, but flashed an amused smile nonetheless. "Sure, why the hell not. I'll see if they want to come, too."

"_Fantastico_," Silvio laughed, and clapped him on the shoulder. "Give me a call when you're ready, I'll come get you."

"_Grazie_," the assassin replied absentmindedly, already scoping out the room again as his excitable friend moved off. The others were making their way to his corner, but too slowly for his liking. He deflected the greetings of an initiate with the bare minimum of politeness and caught Alan's eye on his way to the door. The accountant in turn tapped Francesco on the shoulder, and a few minutes later the two of them joined Nick outside.

"No thanks," the bespectacled man declined the cigarette he was offered, but his taller companion accepted one and nodded in gratitude when Nick lit him up.

"Got anywhere in mind?" the hitman asked, stowing his lighter. "And I mean _any_where. My treat."

"Davio's, maybe?" Alan suggested, shrugging. The spy shook his head.

"They don't do lunch on Sundays," he answered dismissively, tipping his chin up to blow a couple of smoke rings. "How about Piattini? It's only a few blocks from here."

Nick grinned – that was going to be his choice if the other two couldn't make up their minds. "_Che suona bene per me_," he concurred, and took a long drag of his cigarette. "Alan?"

"If you're paying? _Sì, certamente_!" the accountant laughed.

"Then let's go," the assassin said, grinding out his smoke in a conveniently placed ashtray. "I'm starving."

The three men strolled down Isabella Street to the corner, chatting amiably. Alan did most of the chatting, actually, still bursting with pride over his daughter's latest achievements. Nick let him go on, happy to keep quiet and monitor himself for any signs of suspicious behavior. It was all right to be a little abrasive with his closer friends, but he had to make sure that he didn't seem _too_ out of temper. They might start to worry about him, and that would lead to all kinds of trouble.

A few minutes later they stepped into the restaurant, pleasantly warm in contrast to the pleasantly brisk air outside.

"Three," Nick told the maitre'd.

"Certainly, sir," the prim man said, and beckoned for a distinguished-looking waiter. "Right this way."

They were guided towards the back of the tiny dining room, where a small table in the corner already bore three place settings. Their server distributed menus with a congenial smile, and took up that particular stance that only the most experienced of waiters can get right.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen, my name is Sal and I'll be your waiter today," he recited in a polite, flowing lilt. Nick already hated him. "Would you like to start off with some drinks?"

"Let's see, I think I'll have a glass of white..." Alan murmured thoughtfully, running a finger down the wine list. Nick glanced at his menu, turned the page, and interrupted just as the accountant was about to make his choice.

"Get me the dinner menu."

"I'm terribly sorry, sir, but we don't begin serving dinner until five," Sal replied, unfazed. The assassin immediately made it a personal mission to faze him.

"That's nice," he growled, the tone of his voice causing his friends to close their eyes in resignation. "Bring it anyway, and not only will I refrain from making your life hell, but I'll give you two hundred bucks _on top_ of a twenty percent tip."

Sal's perfect manners faltered, leaving him to stare bewildered at the black-haired man across the table. "I... but... sir, the kitchens..."

Nick put on his favorite grin, the one that in any sensible world would get him arrested."You got a family, Sal?"

"_Nicolas_," Alan hissed as the waiter went pale as a ghost. "Isn't this supposed to be a fun, celebration kind of meal?"

"I _am_ having fun," Nick muttered back, then raised his voice again. "Three dinner menus, and _rendono veloce_."

"Y-yes sir," the terrified man squeaked, and scurried away.

"Oh, Crisci..." Francesco sighed, shaking his head almost sadly. "Whatever are we going to do with you?"

"Just keep me from killing anyone today, that'll be enough," the hitman answered, not joking in the slightest. "Speaking of which, I'm going to the range with Silvio later. Either of you want to come?"

"Sure," the spy accepted with a smile. "God knows I could use the practice."

"Alan?"

"Sorry," the accountant said regretfully, adjusting his glasses to watch their waiter return. "I promised the ladies that we'd go hiking this afternoon. Maybe some other time?"

"You're no fun."

Having successfully bullied Sal into fetching the dinner menu, Nick then proceeded to order half of it. His friends maintained an air of resigned amusement as he did so, but did not comment on the server's petrified reaction – the man might as well have been invisible. The assassin toyed lovingly with his knife as the others made their choices, unaware of the dangerous sparkle in his eye that reflected the sheen of polished silver. Once Sal was gone again, Francesco broke the brief silence with a sip of water and a knowing glance.

"All right, Crisci, what's eating you?"

Nick looked up sharply, startled out of his thoughts by the question. His companion chuckled humorlessly, casting a look over at Alan before leaning comfortably back in his chair.

"Is it the new house? Rumor has it you're finally moving up in the world."

The assassin rolled his eyes, a little exasperated at how fast news could spread, but not surprised in the slightest. He sighed, lazily raised his knife, and violently swung it down, stopping a centimeter short of actually plunging it into the table.

"You know how it goes. I'll be obliged to host a _function_ once we're settled in," he said icily, and delicately replaced the utensil by his plate. "It's enough to make a guy never want to unpack."

The accountant laughed gently. "Only you would get so upset about a housewarming, Nicolas," he said, shaking his head in slow amusement. "Really, how bad could it be?"

While it was true that he was not looking forward to the all-but-mandatory event, it was also the only plausible reason Nick could give for being in such a bad temper. That was a _lot_ of anger to lay at the feet of such a trivial thing, and his friends had noticed. He gave himself a mental shake.

"_Non lo so_," he muttered. "First the high-pressure job, then the promotion, now this... It's just been one thing after another lately."

"You should take off for a week or two," Francesco suggested. "God knows, you could go anywhere you wanted. _Roma_, _Venezia_... Your wife's family is from _Firenze_, right?"

"Yeah, three generations back," Nick scoffed. "But there's more to the world than _Italia_, _amico_."

"How about Tibet?" offered Alan. "If you're after some peace and quiet, those monks practically invented it."

"They also invented yaks, as far as I can tell," the hitman retorted. "And as much as I want to, I can't just catch the next flight out of Logan. Carmine's got a new job lined up for me."

"Ooh, _davvero_?" the accountant asked, leaning forward eagerly. "Who's the unlucky guy?"

"Don't know yet," Nick answered with a congenial smirk. "I just overheard Gabrielle at church before we left. Papa's been letting her into too much business these days."

"Maybe there's another wedding in our future, eh?" The spy's mischievous smile glittered in his hazel eyes, and he raised his water glass in a mock toast. "After all, it's been _how_ long since Carolina died? The man has a right to companionship."

"Fifteen years, come December eighth," the assassin muttered. "He still wears the ring, though. I don't think he's interested in getting remarried."

"Maybe," Alan said thoughtfully, glancing towards the kitchen. "Ten to one he gets rid of that ring on January first."

"I'll take that," Francesco accepted, pulling out his wallet. "Five hundred says it's within a week of the eighth."

"Deal." The men shook on it.

"You two are ridiculous," Nick sighed as the money changed hands. He caught a flurry of movement from the corner of his eye, and perked up considerably as he saw their waiter approach with appetizers. "_Attento_."

"That smells incredible," Alan groaned as the plates were arranged before them.

"_Fantastico_," the hitman agreed, already digging into his _bruschetta_. Francesco saw his enthusiasm, and laughed.

"That's your problem, Crisci. Low blood sugar."

Nick barely bothered to swallow, and only looked up briefly to cast a condescending glance at his friend.

"What? I told you I was starving."


	20. Range

"Half an hour," Nick sighed, putting away his phone to take a sip of coffee. "Apparently Mass Ave is a parking lot."

"Eh, so what?" replied Alan breezily. "It gives us time to digest."

"Yeah, Crisci, I don't think you'll be able to move until he gets here," Francesco quipped, gently nudging his friend in the stomach. The assassin flinched away from the attack, exaggerating his fullness for comedic effect.

"Oh, god, Lapazzi, don't," he groaned with a pained expression. "I paid a lot for that meal, but that doesn't mean I wanna see it again..."

The spy withdrew his elbow with a disgusted wince, and Alan stuck out his tongue. "How you feel is your own fault, _mangione_," he teased, and licked a film of chocolate mousse from his dessert spoon. "Thanks again, though. This was fun. And tasty."

"_Nessun problema_," Nick replied, gazing pensively into the black reflections of his beverage. "You know, Francesco, I think you were right. I needed that."

"Are we in a less murderous mood now?" the taller man asked impishly, dimples flashing at the corners of his mouth. "Can we go to the range without ending up _in carcare_?"

"Oh, _stai zitto_," the placated hitman growled, affectionately returning the elbow jab. "Don't worry, if we get arrested it won't be my fault."

The spy arched his eyebrow skeptically. "Really?"

"Yeah, really, it'll be because of your precious Derringer," Nick told him, tilting his head to indicate the place Francesco kept his handgun concealed. "You know, if you're gonna carry off-book you oughta at least get a better piece. Nunz got me mine, I could ask him-"

"Some of us don't want to lug around five pounds of extra weight," the spy interrupted, smirking.

"Afraid it'll ruin your figure?" Alan interjected, making curvy gestures in the air with his hands and grinning like a schoolboy.

"As a matter of fact, yes," Francesco retorted, sticking his nose in the air while Nick snickered into his coffee. "Hey, I'm paid to look good! The risk isn't worth getting caught, especially at a campaign fundraiser. Scott Brown's security is _mean_."

The assassin smiled as he put his mug down. "No wonder you never talk about your family, _finoccio_."

"_Fuori linea_, Crisci," the spy said somberly.

"You know I'm joking, _amico_," Nick dismissed the comment, flicking a hand at his friend. "But I still think your gun is pathetic."

"Maybe you're just compensating, Nicolas," Alan suggested with a wicked gleam in his eye. "No wonder you don't have any kids!"

"_Nice_!" Francesco gave him a high-five while the assassin gave him a playful glare.

"Hey, whose side are you on, Ferarro?"

"You deserved it," the accountant shot back.

"Eh, maybe," Nick said with a rueful shrug. "I did walk right into it."

"Mm-hmm," Alan hummed, pleased with his own wit. He checked his watch, then took a last sip of his drink and crumpled up his napkin on the table. "Well, guys, I gotta run. Suzanne wants to be home from our trip before dark, since Lydia has class tomorrow."

"All right, give the girls my best," Francesco said as the accountant stood up to go. Nick raised a mocking toast and flashed a smile.

"Have fun."

The bespectacled man straightened his jacket and strolled towards the exit, but stopped briefly at the desk on his way out. His friends watched with benign curiosity as he spoke to the maitre'd, and chuckled.

"I bet he's apologizing for you, Crisci."

"Knowing him? Definitely," Nick responded, and drained the last of his coffee. "He always was too good for this business."

"Maybe for yours, _assassino_, but not for his," Francesco said. "Remember when Solyndra went under? Who do you think ruined them?"

Nick looked up, genuinely surprised. "No way."

"Yeah way, some political interests hired us and the Spolanos to get into their books. Alan ran point on that one."

"Huh." The assassin regarded his mild-mannered accountant friend with a subtle new respect. "I never heard about that."

The spy chuckled smugly. "You never needed to know."

Alan left, and the two other men lapsed into a contented silence for a few minutes. Before long Nick began to feel slightly restless, and straightened up in his chair with a decisive sigh. Francesco caught his cue, and lazily folded his napkin into an origami crane before pushing back from the table.

"Classy," the hitman commented as they stood up. His companion shrugged humbly.

"Just a cheap party trick. The ladies think it's _so_ sophisticated."

"How does your wife feel about that?"

"Cathryn knows what's what," the taller man said dismissively as they left the restaurant. "I could never cheat on her because I could never forget."

"Ah, yes, what's it called? 'Eidetic memory?' Such a curse."

"You'd be surprised, Crisci," Francesco told him. "Think about it, do you really want to remember every illness, every injury, like you were living it all over again?"

Nick sat on a bench by the corner, and had to admit that sometimes forgetting was a good thing. "But it's so damn useful," he continued. "You could learn anything just by flipping through a textbook. You'd never screw up cover stories or catch yourself in a lie..."

"Which is why I have my job," his friend interrupted wryly. "But I'm not a computer. I rely on triggers to recall things – faces, mostly. I remember injuries because the scars are always there. But words on a page... Nobody can read the manual once and magically become a sharpshooter. Skills like that take practice, which is why I'm going with you today."

"_Basta_, I get it," Nick grumbled, gazing at the corner with the hope of spotting Silvio's Focus. "You're still a freak of nature, Lapazzi."

The spy laughed. "Love you too, _fratello_."

* * *

><p>In due course their chauffeur picked them up, and they drove out of the city and into the wilder landscape of northern Massachusetts. None of them was overly fond of the outdoors, but the range always had a way of changing their minds about open sky. This Sunday also lived up to its name – the day was full of late September light that poured down through crisp air scented with gunpowder and grease. Perhaps it had something to do with feeling so trapped recently, but Nick was thoroughly enjoying himself out in the field.<p>

"Three... two... one... fire!"

At Silvio's signal the other two let fly, emptying identical Glocks into silhouettes hanging halfway down the lane. Not needing to prove the superiority of the assassin's sidearm over Francesco's tiny pistol, they now competed to see who was the better shot with standard law enforcement weapons. The spy finished first, bringing up his gun a fraction of a second before Nick's last bullet hit the paper; but his haste had affected his accuracy, and when the targets were retrieved the hitman crossed his arms smugly.

"Perfect spread, Lapazzi. Better luck next time."

"Don't gloat, it's rude," Francesco retorted. "I told you I needed the practice."

"Go on, then," Nick laughed, rolling his neck to get the stiffness out. "I'm going to play with the big boy toys for a while."

"Oh, this is gonna be good," Silvio said, rubbing his hands together eagerly. "I'll go get Jimmy."

"Tell him I want the AR-50," the assassin called out after him, smirking with anticipation. "And the hardest target in the shed!"

"Show-off," his taller companion scolded as he prepared his Derringer. "I think Alan was right, Nicolas, you've got something to prove today."

"What, a guy's not allowed to have fun?" Nick asked. He played at being insulted, but his heart had skipped a beat. Of all the people to notice something was wrong, it just _had_ to be the one who wouldn't forget...

Francesco ran out another paper silhouette to hang in his lane, somewhat closer than the ones they'd used before. "Fifty caliber fun, huh?"

"I live for the day I get to use this beauty on a job," the assassin quipped excitedly. Silvio was returning with the owner of the facility, a deeply tanned man in his sixties who carried a five-foot-long box labeled "Armalite."

"Yer lucky I like you, Crisci," Jimmy chuckled as he came near. Silvio picked a lane for himself and loaded his nine-millimeter, but watched from the corner of his eye as the magnificent weapon was unpacked.

"Thanks a ton, Jimmy," Nick said warmly. The older man grunted in acknowledgment and finished laying out the gun, then left to erect the target while the hitman adjusted the weapon the way he liked it.

The big black sniper rifle hadn't been touched since the last time he'd been here. It was several different kinds of illegal to own in Massachusetts, and only Family members even knew it was available; of those who did, only Nick really bothered practicing on it. Maybe it was the calm he felt while aiming, or perhaps it was the rush of putting a bullet right through a target that was invisible to the naked eye; but something about handling the AR-50 could brighten even his worst days.

"Good to go," Jimmy told him when he'd returned from the far end of the range, then hollered to the others. "All clear, fellas! Fire when ready!"

Silvio and Francesco began their respective barrages. Nick took a deep breath and got down on the ground, stomach protected from the dirt by the padded tarp beneath him. He got comfortable on his elbows, legs precisely laid out behind him in perfect military form. His target wasn't so far away that he would need a spotter; so he put his eye to the scope, fingered the trigger, and tuned out the world.


	21. Stalker

Nick spent half the night dreaming of stalking his prey, staked out on a roof that kept trying to melt away under him. When his phone woke him at five-thirty on Monday morning he jumped, trigger finger reacting to the harsh buzzing noise with a jerk. He scrabbled for his pistol with one hand and the offending device with the other, but the old Nokia on his bedside table lay silent. Frowning, the assassin slipped away from Alessandra's still-unconscious form and silently crossed the room to the dresser. Next to his wallet and keys lay the dirt-cheap LG that Melnikov had given him – and it was ringing, vibrating against a pile of loose change and kicking up what felt like an awful racket.

"What?" The half-awake hitman picked up the handset and grunted into it, silently leaving the bedroom so as not to disturb his wife. The weak light of pre-dawn was just enough to keep him from tripping over the threshold on his way to the bathroom.

"The first shipment will be ready for you in ten days," the drug lord's voice came over the speaker, strangely distorted and full of static. "I have received word that our young _friend_ is hosting a hunting trip this weekend. I expect to receive word of a... tragic accident... soon after, _da_? Then you will know where to get your medicine."

"How much is in this shipment?" Nick rasped, closing the door behind him and slumping tiredly against it. "What kind of dose?"

"A lethal dose is three hundred milligrams for an average-sized, healthy man," Melnikov said, sounding a bit smug through the interference. "You asked for three times that. This bottle contains twenty pills, with half a milligram of active ingredient each."

The assassin did some quick arithmetic, and snorted in disbelief. "You're telling me I'll need _ninety_ of these things?"

"Not to worry, _italyanskii_. Of this form, yes. It is what I could obtain on short notice. Another supplier of mine provides the chemical concentrated. You would need only six of his syringes."

"Get me three of those," Nick said after another brief calculation. "The rest I'll take in pills."

"You'll see none of it before the job is done, Crisci," Melnikov hissed, suddenly dropping his congenial act. "You've made a_ predatel _of yourself. Trust is not something you deserve in abundance."

The line went dead.

Nick regarded the phone with sullen resignation, too tired to be insulted and cursing the Soviet for calling so bloody early. The _stronzo_ was probably on Moscow time or some shit.

Knowing there was no point in trying to get any more sleep, the assassin took a shower and began pottering around the kitchen while the sun made up its mind about rising. Across the counter, Nick could see Ellis conked out on the sofa – he looked innocent and peaceful, and the older man felt a brief resentment. Didn't the hick know how much trouble he'd caused? The least he could do was look a little ashamed.

Nick caught himself staring and bit his tongue to snap out of it, chagrined for having thought such things. He set up the coffeemaker and sat at the kitchen table, stripping down his gun in a robotic morning ritual. It took a moment for him to realize that something was missing.

"Sonofa..." he sighed, and traipsed back to the bedroom to fetch his cigarettes and lighter. While he was there he decided he might as well get dressed, which was fortunate – at seven-thirty his personal phone rang, tickling his thigh instead of waking his wife. He drained his second cup of coffee before answering.

"_Bu__ongiorno..._"

"_Buongiorno, signore._"

"Donatta?"

"_Si, singnore _Crisci. Mr. Napoline wants to see you."

"Stop calling me _signore_, kiddo, or I'll start giving you orders you won't like. Has papa got that new job lined up?"

"Yeah."

"Is Graham still there?"

"No, he's staying downtown at the Liberty."

"What about _il capo_?"

"Gone, wherever it is he goes to."

"All right, I'll be down around nine."

"Okay. I'll let Silvio know."

"_Gratzie_."

Although he'd tried to be quiet, the conversation had disturbed Ellis' slumber. The young Georgian now stirred on the couch, rubbing at his eyes and reaching for a hat that wasn't there. He screwed up his face in a sulky frown before finally blinking awake, and sighed as he remembered again where he was.

"Mornin', Nick."

"Hey."

The assassin stared impassively out the window as his young boarder got up and stretched. Ellis, thankfully, picked up on the mood. He was quiet while he made breakfast, speaking only to ask if his host wanted an omelette instead of chattering on about inane topics.

"C'n I gitcha anythin' ta eat?" he called, holding up the carton of eggs. Nick shrugged.

"Sure."

"What'cha want in it?"

"Mushrooms and cheese."

"Comin' right up."

The meal was brief, and Nick spent most of it preoccupied with thoughts of work. By this afternoon he'd have _three_ murders to carry out, so it was imperative that he keep his plans in order. That wasn't counting the move, either. He sighed, washed his plate, and holstered his gun.

"Thanks for the food. I'll be back later."

Ellis looked up from his huge glass of OJ. "Where're ya goin'?"

"Out," the assassin said, with a smirk that told his companion not to worry. "When Aly wakes up, tell her to get stuff together. I'll be bringing back those boxes for her."

"Okay. An' don't ferget th' bubble wrap!" the younger man said cheekily. Nick couldn't help a small chuckle from escaping as he slipped into his shoes and out of the apartment.

A distinct sullenness hovered in the subway this morning, the ugly combination of impatience and exhausted resentment that characterized Monday rush hour. It was only too easy for the assassin to blend with the crowd like any other world-weary desk jockey, shuffling from Red line to Orange in the midst of a viscous tide of humanity.

He hung on a strap near the doors, left arm held close to his body so as not to reveal the pistol tucked under it. A girl of perhaps twenty slumped in a seat a few meters away, her brightly patterned jacked standing out like a beacon from the drab coats of the zombie-like commuters around her. Nick found himself fixated on the spot of color at first, but when the youngster glanced up and pulled out an earbud to better hear the train's PA he rapidly stopped staring into space. She looked familiar… the dirty blond ponytail, high cheekbones, and tan skin all rang bells in the assassin's head.

He surreptitiously watched the girl for a good five minutes, but it was only when somebody jostled her that things clicked into place. She glared with annoyance, and a particular twist to her mouth sparked the memory in Nick's mind – this was Kaylee, Ellis' girlfriend. She didn't look too happy even when the brief inconvenience had passed; she must still be upset that her beau had vanished off the face of the earth.

The hitman continued his surveillance for the remainder of the trip. Kaylee paused her music every time the train slowed down, which indicated to Nick that she wasn't familiar with the place she was going. She seemed fidgety, as well – though her posture screamed boredom, one finger skipped through songs on her iPod fast enough that the screen only went dim for a few seconds at a time. She also kept looking at a little piece of paper – a sticky note, judging by size and color – that she kept clenched in her other hand.

A considerable number of people evacuated at Back Bay, and though it wasn't his stop, Nick joined them. Without a dense crowd to protect him, the odds of getting recognized increased dramatically. He slipped out ahead of a haggard-looking man with a knapsack and jostled his way to the next car, hopping on board just before a familiar _bing-bong_ sound announced that the doors were closing. Though several seats were empty now, the assassin remained standing. He could move faster that way.

Nick had put the encounter out of his mind by the time it was his turn to disembark for real. When his stop was announced he shifted closer to the doors, swayed with the deceleration and stepped lightly onto the waiting platform. He traipsed up the escalator to the brick-paved sidewalk, leaned against a wall, and reached for a cigarette. His watch read 8:43, and he kept an eye out for Silvio as he smoked.

Quite a bit of traffic was still surging back and forth along Green Street. A few late-for-work pedestrians dashed between cars to get to the subway in the hopes of catching an inbound express. Nick chuckled darkly as he watched them, running like ants caught out in the rain. They were distracting enough that the assassin almost missed it: Kaylee emerged from the tunnels, frowning at her post-it note and looking around her like she expected to be mugged any second. When Nick caught sight of her the blood froze in his veins – being on the same train was coincidence, but getting off at the same place was not. Especially not with the way she was acting.

He was being stalked.

The raven-haired hitman exhaled a cold lungful of smoke, and watched as the girl flagged down a taxi. Her turquoise hoodie stood poised on the curb for a moment, then vanished behind the white-and-maroon-striped door of the cab that responded to her hail.

Nick finished his cigarette slowly, letting each breath coil around his chest before releasing it. Kaylee obviously wasn't _following_ him, but she was definitely scoping him out. There was no other reason for her to be that nervous in this respectable suburban area… And how did she know to come here, anyway? She must have gotten the Villa's address somehow; it was probably written on that stupid little slip of paper she kept looking at.

The assassin resumed his vigil, frowning a little deeper now, mind racing, trying to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do about this. Soon he noticed a familiar blue Ford pull up across the street. He let the smoldering butt fall from his fingers and ground it out under his heel. An impatient driver honked at him as he strode across traffic, but he didn't pay it the slightest mind. He merely got into the car, and put a hand on the gear shift before Silvio even had a chance to say "hello."

"I've been followed," he said, emerald eyes hard as flint. The Sicilian's smiling face fell slack in shock.

"_What_?"

"There's a girl, god knows who she is or why she's after me. Take us around Robin Hood's barn before heading home. I'm calling it in."

Silvio swallowed hard, and shifted to drive once his companion took his hand from the stick. "What are they going to do about it?"

"Nothing yet," Nick growled quietly, pulling out his phone and hitting his father's speed-dial. It only rang twice before Carmine answered.

"Good morning, Nicolas!"

"Trouble, papa. Tell everyone to keep an eye out for a girl, maybe twenty, light brown hair and a bright blue sweatshirt. I think she followed me. Silvio's gonna try to lose her, but if she shows up, don't let her see anything. Make her think nobody's home."

"Got it. _Un momento_," the _caporegime_ answered, and Nick heard him barking orders at someone before addressing his son once more. "What's going on, Crisci?"

"Fuck if I know," the assassin lied, feeling queasy. "Could be nothing, or it could be a mark's relative out for revenge. Let's keep our heads down and not make it any worse."

"Well don't come here, even if you think you've given her the slip," Carmine told him, voice hard. "The boys will lock it down anyway, but I'll meet you at the library instead. Art history section."

"Yes, sir."

Nick put away his phone, closing his eyes in exasperation. After a few minutes of roundabout turns and backtracking he glanced at the rear-view mirror, and sighed. "She's long gone, Silvio. Take us to the library. Carmine will catch up to us there."

The driver abruptly switched lanes, cutting off someone who wanted to turn left and earning himself a rude gesture. "Free already? Huh. At least your secret admirer sucks at tailing."

"Yeah," the assassin murmured, leaning his head tiredly against the window. "I guess we got lucky this time."


	22. Research

Carmine was perusing a glossy tome of baroque architecture by the time Nick arrived. The library had only just opened, and was utterly empty save for a few panicked students printing out their homework before class. This deep in the stacks was silent as the grave, and all the visible security cameras were conveniently pointed away from the assassin's rendezvous. He approached nonchalantly, and took up a spot on the opposite side of the shelf from his mentor.

"_Mi dispiace_," the younger man muttered into the books, selecting a musty volume to "read" during the meeting.

"What the hell was that, Nicolas?" came the hissed reply, surprisingly reserved for the situation. The hitman counted to ten in his head before answering.

"I don't know, sir," he said, barely moving his lips. "Did she find the Villa?"

"Yes, she did. Michael said she came in a taxi, got out to look at the house, took some notes and left. _I've_ got a tail on _her_ now. When we know more, you might have some cleanup to do."

"Understood," Nick confirmed with a sick feeling in his gut.

"Good. Here's your next target."

Carmine re-racked his book and selected a new one. The assassin waited a moment before doing the same, pulling the newly replaced architecture folio through the backless shelves to his side. He let the pages fall open by themselves, revealing the photograph his commanding officer had placed between them. It was an old mugshot of a white man in his forties, looking pleased with himself. On the back was written a name and an address.

"Samuel Waits, pedophile, got off scot-free ten years ago. The family appealed, but it was dismissed last month and the kid killed herself because of it. Her parents are ready to go outside the law for revenge."

"What, are we vigilantes now?" Nick quipped, mentally adding ten years to the man in the photo to imagine what he might look like after all this time. Carmine snorted.

"Hardly. The family isn't rich, but the father works inspection on the docks. He's our man now."

"Ray must be happy about that," the assassin mused, keenly aware of how useful another insider would be to the arms smuggling branch of their operation.

"_Si dovrebbe __credere_," his father agreed.

"Is there a deadline? Special conditions?"

"At the risk of sounding cliché… Make it look like an accident," Carmine's wry voice came from behind the dusty texts. He shelved his book and walked away, leaving Nick alone with the portfolio of ornate church ceilings and gilded palace walls.

Oddly, the nature of this job was something of a relief – moral black-and-white, a task with no ethical dilemma attached. He remained in the library for a few minutes, scrutinizing his target with a trained gaze. The address was a P.O. box; not exceptionally helpful, but enough to go on. He had to stop by the post office on his way home anyway, for packing supplies.

Nick slipped the photo into his pocket with a sigh, and wandered out of the stacks to drop his tome off on a reshelving cart. He began to meander towards the exit, pausing in the fiction section to pick up a couple of thrillers. He was about to approach the counter when a colorful display caught his eye: a new collection of fully illustrated how-to books were arranged artfully on the shelves, offering everything from cooking and gardening to fishing and car care. The assassin changed course to look, and when he finally made his way to the checkout he carried both a compilation of soul food recipes and a guide to Italian sports cars.

With a courtesy bag from the library slung over his shoulder, Nick got Silvio to bring him back to the Orange line. He kept a weather eye out on his way to Haymarket, but didn't see Kaylee this time. In spite of this, something instinctual told him that he'd be running into her again quite soon. Further gears began to turn in his head, preparing for that day and what he'd have to do when it came.

A few blocks from the T stop stood the post office mentioned on the back of his target's mugshot. Nick saw how crowded it was and groaned faintly, not looking forward to queuing up with all those people. He sighed and moved to the sales display; the size of box he needed wasn't available here, but he'd expected that. He picked up some packing tape instead, and stationery for the housewarming invitations, before steeling himself and stepping up behind a woman with a package in her arms.

While he was in line he kept a subtle eye on the wall of P.O. boxes off to his right. The number he wanted was 074; nobody approached it while he was there, but he hadn't felt that lucky anyway. He'd have to go through Family channels to get into the security cameras, and figure out Mr. Waits' schedule the old-fashioned way.

Nick made his purchases and left. He returned to the subway, which was free of the morning rush by now, and took a slight detour through Chinatown to stop at the UPS store before going home. Fortunately the theater district wasn't too far away, meaning that the trip back to the apartment could have been a lot worse. Nevertheless, the assassin grumbled resentfully with every flight of stairs he had to climb, dragging his burden the entire way. The weight wasn't an issue – the library books weren't all that heavy, really – rather, the awkward shape of the cardboard boxes was what caused the problem. He held them tight under his arms, folded flat, relying entirely on friction to keep them from sliding from his grasp.

It was with relief that he finally made it through the door. He grunted in reply to Ellis' greeting, and left the boxes on the table along with the bubble wrap. Finally he relaxed into his favorite armchair and fished the book about cars out from the bottom of his bag.

"Here, kiddo," he said, holding it out. "Try not to drool all over it, okay? It's due back in a couple of weeks."

The mechanic paused his video game and took the glossy volume, a smile growing on his face. "Aw, sick, man! Thanks!" he exclaimed, discarding the XBox controller so he could flip through the pages with both hands.

Nick smirked, digging through his pockets for his phone and the picture Carmine had given him. "No problem. Now keep quiet for a minute, I need to do some research."

"Uh-huh," Ellis murmured, already lost in the artfully framed curves of a Testarossa's engine block.

The assassin flicked through his contact list until he found the name he wanted, hit the call button, and brought the speaker to his ear. It rang four times before somebody picked up.

"_Sissignore_, what can I do for you?" answered Julia, one of the girls in Carmine's intelligence network. Nick grimaced, reminding himself that sooner or later he'd have to get used to being called that.

"Have we got anyone in the post office?" he asked briskly. "I need security footage for 25 New Chardon Street."

"Give me a minute, let's see…" she muttered, and Nick could hear the clatter of a keyboard on the other end of the line. "Huh. Normally you'd want Russel for that, but he's under indictment… Try Jackie DeRoss. He's with the police."

"Fantastic. You got his number?" The assassin scribbled the digits down on the back of the photo as Julia read them off, and recited them back to make sure. "Thanks, doll. Catch you later."

He hung up on her giggle and immediately started dialing the crooked cop, idly watching the pause menu on the TV as he listened to the ring-back. It went long enough that he knew nobody would pick up, but waited a little more just to be certain.

"_You have reached the voice mailbox of –_"The man spoke his own name, in a pleasant bass that contrasted sharply with the robotic female voice reading off the rest of the script. "Officer Jack DeRoss – _To leave a voicemail, press one, or just wait for the tone. To send a fax, press four now..._"

The assassin sighed and hung up without leaving a message. The missed call would register, and DeRoss would ring him back later.

Nick checked the time and found that it was just after eleven. He rose from his position to flick on the percolator, knowing that Alessandra would be waking up soon – and that she'd need coffee to forgive him for borrowing her laptop, which he took from her bag on the way back to his chair.

"Hey, Ellis," he called quietly. The mechanic jerked his head up from a detailed examination of the Lamborghini on the page.

"Hmm?"

"Your girlfriend, Kaylee. Tell me about her." Nick asked, entering his wife's password to log on to Facebook.

Ellis blinked at him with a half-suspicious expression that also betrayed a pained longing. "Why?"

"Just curious," the hitman lied casually, navigating to the search page. "What's she like?"

"Oh, man, she's an _an-gel_," the southerner sighed. "Like, seriously. She does all kinds a' charity work, ain't afraid a' gettin' her hands dirty buildin' houses or whatever… Real serious 'bout politics an' stuff, too, wants ta be a senator someday an' git more funding fer schools an' such…"

"Senator?" Nick prompted, silently willing his young companion to let slip the girl's last name.

"I know, right? She's got some crazy kinda ambition fer where she's at. Can ya believe she's payin' her way through college as a firs' grade teachin' assistant?" Ellis clearly had it bad, staring dreamily off into space with a bit of a vapid grin. The older man resisted the urge to gag theatrically.

"A TA, huh? How old is she, again?"

"Twenty-two, jus' a few months older'n me," the mechanic answered, and chuckled. "She says it makes her feel _ancient_ when th' kids call her 'Ms. McEvers,' though…"

Bingo. Nick's fingers briefly flew, typing "Kaylee McEvers" into the search bar. "Sounds like an intense young lady," he offered, hoping to draw out more information he could use.

"Yeah, she is," Ellis told him dreamily. "One time, she said she liked me 'cuz she doesn't hafta be on her guard all th' time. Said I help her t'relax. I told her it's 'cuz she don't gotta impress me, I think she's perfect already…"

Once again the northerner had to keep himself from making a scathing comment. Instead he made vague noises of interest as the lovestruck young man continued to gush. He had to admit, though, that the girl did have a point. Ellis was easy to be around – when he wasn't running his mouth off, anyway.

He hit enter, and a couple of seconds later Facebook spat out its results. Right there at the top were two young ladies with the name "Kaylee McEvers." One had a default blank for an avatar; but the other showed a heavyset black girl, so Nick picked the first link and hoped little miss Kaylee wasn't as smart as Ellis made her out to be.

Unfortunately, she was. Only a limited amount of information was available to the public: name, occupation, and a brief "About Me" section that wasn't all that informative. There was just enough data to confirm that this profile was the one he wanted, and make him slightly uneasy. Someone with the presence of mind to enable her privacy settings was probably just as intelligent about other things, too – like tracking down her missing boyfriend. What was worse, listed amongst her favorite things were several mystery novels, as well as detective shows like _Sherlock_ and _Castle_. A smart, driven girl with a penchant for solving crimes spelled Big Trouble, capital letters and all.

Nick sighed through clenched teeth, logged out, and pointed the browser to Google. Maybe he could find out something about his target while he was waiting for DeRoss and Carmine to call him back.


End file.
